Blaze of Glory
by Queen of Kaos
Summary: Sequel to The Emancipation. While Randy lives his dream on SD, Trish faces the end of her's on RAW. Now she'll have to rely on old friends, and new allies, to overcome her toughest challenge yet. Rated for strong language.
1. What Happened to Trish?

**Dying Embers**

**(aka The Emancipation of Trish Stratus II)**

_A/N: Thanks to a lot of pleading - or death threats, but who am I to split hairs - I have decided to write the sequel to The Emancipation. I was going to write something different, but the inspiration for this one finally smacked me in the head, so here it is. If you haven't read the first story - The Emancipation of Trish Stratus - you might want to check it out first. I don't know that this one won't make sense without it, but you'll get a lot more backstory. Y'all know I don't own any of the characters, PPV names, or anything else remotely WWE related (except some really cool gear) so don't kid yourselves into thinking that I do. And, as always, your reviews are not only welcome - they are encouraged.

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"You can't be serious," Trish Stratus's little giggle escaped her throat before she could stop it. If she hadn't seen the words coming out of his mouth, she never would have believed them.

Vince McMahon's eyes narrowed and he nodded his gray head, hands resting on the file in front of him. "You know I'm not going to fire you, Trish," he started with a sigh of resignation. "You're far and away the most popular diva on our roster. Even after two months off, you're still a fan-favorite."

She stared at him in disbelief. After two months out of the ring, healing from injuries she sustained as a referee in a No Disqualifications match at Unforgiven, she had finally been cleared to wrestle again. And now Vince was telling her that he didn't think she was ready? Her heart sank as she realized they had all been right. Victoria, Lita, even Stacy, had been right when they warned her that things would not be easy for her, as a woman returning to RAW. At least, not as easy as they had been.

So she was a six-time Women's Champion. She wasn't a Playboy centerfold, willing to strip down to her bra and panties for rating on national television. The Diva Search girls were taking over the locker room, they had warned her, and she wasn't going to seamlessly fit into the picture anymore.

"I did not bust my ass in this business, learning from the best trainers in the world, to valet for some mid-carder, Vince. I deserve better than that," she insisted, growing uncomfortable in the presence of her boss, and four other upper management stiffs.

Settling back into his soft, leather chair, Vince relaxed his shoulders and clasped his hands over his stomach. "Here's the thing, Trish. The new girls are pulling ratings, regardless of what you and your holier-than-thou friends may think. If this was about friendships and loyalty, I would agree with you. But it's about money." Leveling her with a glare, he dared her to challenge him.

"Trish," a voice spoke up from Vince's right side. She turned and rolled her eyes at Hunter, who was dressed in his power suit and playing the "corporate bitch" role that he was seemingly so good at as of late. "Look, you're a more than capable wrestler, when you're on your game. But you've been out so much lately," he started, trying to reason with his friend.

Huffing, she threw her arms up in the air. "Maybe I wouldn't have been out if you hadn't smashed me in the head with a lead pipe, you arrogant son of a bitch," she spat. "I can't believe that you, of all people, are going to sit there and tell me that being out due to a serious injury is a good enough reason to be demoted. Who'd you valet for when you you came back from your fuckin' quad injury, Hunter? Huh?" She risked a glance at Vince, who was sitting stoic, and then at Stephanie, sporting the same expression as her father. "Injuries happen in this business. Give me a chance to rebound and I will," she promised.

Hunter rolled his eyes and watched as her red face started to return to it's naturally bronzed color. "Are you finished?"

She shrugged and then flipped him off. It probably wasn't the smartest thing to do when he was in "boss" mode, but Trish didn't care. Sometimes he reminded her so much of the old Hunter, the one she had spent hours screaming at, only to end the argument with a hug and a laugh. Events of the last several months had changed that, but every once in awhile, the old feelings came bubbling back up.

"Hunter," Vince addressed his son-in-law, who respectfully nodded in attention. "Maybe you and Stephanie should wait outside for a minute?" The couple didn't protest, only stood and left the spacious office without another look back. "You guys, too," he turned and Shane, and another guy that Trish recognized as new, but who's name she didn't know yet, followed the others into the hallway.

"Vince, listen," she started, leaning forward when they were alone. She had never been intimidated or uncomfortable in the CEO's presence, and she was sure that she could reason with him, now that all the other kiss-asses were gone. "I know that I've missed a lot of ring time in the last year."

But he cut her off by raising his hand and then standing from his chair. "This is not about that, Trish," he stated. His tone said that he was not going to budge, but that he was more than willing to explain himself, even though he didn't have to. "I understand that talent will miss time due to injury," he reminded her. "What I don't understand is what has happened to the Trish Stratus that I knew a year ago. Hell, I don't understand what happened to the Trish I saw out there three months ago."

Trish knew exactly what had happened. Randy Orton went to Smackdown. Granted, they hadn't spent a lot of time holding hands or making out in the halls at work, since most of their relationship was spent concealing their involvement from anyone and everyone who might have something to say about it. But just knowing that he wouldn't be there to smile at her across gorilla position, or to meet her outside before a match, or to nudge her with his shoulder when he passed her in the cafeteria, made it harder to anticipate showing up to work.

"Seems to me," Vince interrupted her thoughts, "that you've been in a funk since Orton left." She stared at her hands, unwilling to admit that her boss was right. "And until you've regained the fire, the passion, that made you the Women's Champion in the first place? Well, Trish, you'll be wearing what I tell you, valeting like a regular diva, and smiling while you do it."

A million expletives flooded her mind, but she bit her lip. That was not a "let's negotiate" tone Vince was using. "Can I choose who I valet for?" she asked, conceding to the terms without actually saying the words.

"You'll accompany Cena to the ring Monday night," he nodded, knowing who she would say before she asked. With Batista also jumping ship, John was the only of her "revolutionaries" left. And Vince had a feeling that the Doctor of Thuganomics might just be the only person around RAW that had a prayer of bringing the firey Trish back to them.

She stood to leave, feeling as though the weight of the world was resting on her shoulders. "Thanks," she spoke softly before letting herself out of the office.

She met no one's eye as she passed the power triangle in the hall. And that other new guy. Let them all think what they wanted – maybe she had suffered some set backs and hit a few bumps on the road. But she was still Trish fuckin' Stratus. She was a wrestling champion, dammit, not some skank-ass valet.


	2. Is It Time to Quit?

**Dying Embers**

**(aka The Emancipation of Trish Stratus II)**

_A/N: I had one more chapter in me tonight, but you guys probably won't get to it until tomorrow. Anyway, as usual, I own nothing copyrighted or trademarked in this chapter. Read. Review. Enjoy.

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The determination with which Trish had left Vince's office earlier in the day had long-since faded. By the time she had settled into her hotel for the night, clad in sweatpants and one of Randy's tee shirts, she was melancholy and depressed again. There was nothing good on television, and her mind wouldn't have focused, even if there had been. All she could think about was fuckin' Orton – adjective, not verb.

Since the first day they had started passing that stupid rubber ball while rehabbing their Wrestlemania injuries, Trish had known that he was so much more than she had originally thought him to be. After a couple of weeks in that little room, she had known that there was a regular guy under all that "Legend Killer" bull shit. Since their first trip to St. Louis together, she had known that he was The One. When she went toe-to-toe with Triple H at SummerSlam, she had known that there was no one else she would ever trust, or respect, quite as much. And when she had insisted that he go to Smackdown, she had known that no amount of distance or company pressure could change any of it.

What had surprised her was the fact that she was seriously thinking about sacrificing everything she had worked so hard for just to be with him. It was silly, but in her head, it made perfect sense. They had talked about getting married sometime in the next year, and she didn't want to be apart from him then. And, at a just a month shy of thirty, she wanted to start a family in the near future.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to start sooner, rather than later. Maybe fate had just reshuffled the deck a bit and dealt her another hand to play. Maybe Trish the Wrestler was past her prime. Maybe it was time to hang up the boots and think about being Trish the Homemaker.

Before she could contemplate another 'maybe,' there was a knock at the hotel door. It was either John, once again checking on her, as he had every night for the last three weeks. Since she had started traveling with the RAW crew again, he was always around, making sure that she was okay and that she had everything she needed. Or it was Victoria, bitching about another Diva Search chick's over-exposed boobs and hair extensions.

Yanking the door open, Trish yelped. "What the hell?"

"Can you just take the flowers, baby? My hands are kinda full here." Randy's voice sounded from behind the huge bouquet of roses in her face, causing Trish's heart to flop and then jump into her throat.

Everything she had been thinking just a second ago seemed to vanish from her mind when she lowered the bouquet to rest her eyes on the most beautiful sight she had ever beheld. Or beholden. Whatever.

He finally made it into the room, dropping several boxes to the floor. Standing up to his full 6 feet, four inches, he spread his arms wide and shot her an infamous "Orton" grin. "Do I get a hug, at least?"

She sat the flowers on the entry table and launched herself into his embrace, unexpected tears filling her eyes. His scent intoxicated her senses, making her thoughts feel as though they were floating. And when his arms tightened around her waist, lifting her feet inches from the floor, she reveled in the warmth of his body as it surrounded her. So close to him, she felt whole again.

Taking in the scent of her shampoo, Randy gave her another squeeze and returned her feet to the floor. His hands rested on her shoulders as he pulled back and looked her over. "You want your presents?" he asked, cocking his head and wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "Or you just gonna stand there and break my heart with those big, crocodile tears?"

Sniffling, she wiped her eyes and chuckled, moving toward the bed as he gathered the boxes he had dropped earlier. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her throat straining over the tears.

With a grunt, he placed the pile on the large bed and then sank behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Well," he sighed, grasping her soft earlobe between his teeth for a moment. "I got this phone call, saying my girl wasn't quite herself lately." He placed a kiss on her neck as his hands snaked under her tee shirt and his palms rested on the heated skin of her stomach. "And that's really weird, because she keeps telling me that everything is great."

Leaning her head against his broad chest, Trish ran her hands up and down his thighs. "Yeah?" She could feel him nod as he buried his face in her hair again. "Well, Cena's got a big fuckin' mouth."

Reaching for the nearest gift, Randy laughed. He wouldn't be the one to tell her that it wasn't John who had called him. It was an incredibly distraught Triple H, demanding that Randy find out what the hell was going on with his girlfriend before she lost her job. Since Smackdown had been taping in Madison, Wisconsin, while RAW did a house show in Milwaukee, he had rented a car, drove the hour and a half to be with her, and decided to get to the bottom of all this trouble.

"You better open this one first," he ordered, shaking the box for her. He just hoped the contents had survived their trek from the store down the street, to Victoria's awesome gift-wrapping job, and through their "hello."

Trish peeled the wrapping back and noted that the box felt chilly. When she opened the box, she laughed out loud. "Are you fuckin' kidding me? Where did you find these?" she asked, pulling a Styrofoam cup full of strawberry Dippin' Dots out of the box. It was her favorite ice cream, but she had only ever been able to find it at arenas, and amusement parks.

Randy shrugged, amazed at how her eyes lit up at such a simple gesture. "It's kind of a long story, which I'd be happy to tell you someday. But for now, suffice it to say I know a guy who owes me a favor, and who also happens to own a stand here in Milwaukee," he winked, taking the cup from her. Popping off the plastic lid, he fished a plastic spoon out of the bottom of the box and dipped it into the cup.

Trish closed her eyes as he placed the tiny dots of frozen goodness onto her tongue. It was so cold, so sweet. "Oh my god, I haven't had those in so long," she sighed. "That may be better than sex," she teased, opening her eyes to see his dance with amusement.

"Well, then," Randy groaned as he reached for another small box. "I guess you won't need this gift then."

She snatched the box from his hand and tore it open, finding a jumbo package of Trojans. "Plannin' on getting' lucky, Orton?" she raised an eyebrow and watched him wink. Dammit. He always won the flirting game. He was the only man she knew who could ever stare down her eyebrow, and retaliate with something even more sexy.

There were two boxes left, and Randy handed her the thinnest of the two. "There is nothing on television tonight," he said as she ripped the paper back and clapped her hands like a child.

"Don't I already own this?" she asked, holding up a copy of _Dumb and Dumber_.

Randy tapped the top of the box with his index finger. "That is yours. I stole it last time I was at your house." She tried to pretend to be angry, but Randy just kissed her scrunched nose and felt himself react to the impromptu giggle that escaped her throat. "Dammit, Trish, you're so fuckin' cute."

She rolled her eyes and looked at the bed beside her, reaching for the final package. It was squishy, and she wondered if it was lingerie. It wouldn't be the first time he had bought her something more for his pleasure than her own. "What's this?"

Randy took the package from her hand and stood from the bed. "This, lover, is the most important of the gifts," he informed, holding it as though it were his most prized possession. "But before I give it to you, I want you to tell me what the hell is going on with you?"

She sighed and flopped back on the bed. She wanted to tell him, but she was afraid that it would sound stupid. She wasn't entirely convinced that it wasn't stupid. "I don't know, Randy. I mean, the Women's Division is so fucked up now. And I just don't know if it's even worth fighting for it anymore."

"Woah," he interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest. "What the hell? Not worth it?"

She sat up and met his skeptical gaze with a defeated one of her own. "I just think that maybe, I don't know," she stopped again and then bit her lip. This was Randy. If she couldn't talk to him about it, who could she talk to? "I think maybe it's a sign, ya know? Maybe it's just destiny's way of tellin' me to get out and think about other ventures."

"Fuck destiny," Randy spat, causing Trish's eyes to widen. Sure, he tossed the word around inside the ring, but that was only because it looked cool on a shirt. "Trish, you're the best thing that ever happened to women's wrestling. You're one of the best things that happened to men's wrestling," he added.

She gave an involuntary chuckle and then let her eyes drift to the bedspread beside her. Picking at non-existent lint, she avoided his gaze. She knew that when she looked up, she would see disappointment and confusion, and she didn't think she could bare it. "I _was_," she emphasized the past tense. "I just don't know if it's what I want anymore," she admitted.

"Why?"

The question stunned her. Surely, he already knew that. "Because what I know I want is you," she whispered.

Randy rolled his eyes. He loved that Trish was a tough girl who could walk the talk that she spewed in the ring. And he loved that she wasn't one of those really girlie girls who always wanted to talk about her feelings. Sometimes he forgot that she even had the capacity to be that girl. His mother always told him that women were complex creatures. The toughest chick in the world had a sensitive side, too. But he always insisted that he didn't have to like it.

Opening his arms, he remained silent until she looked into his face. "I'm right here, Trish."

"Not all the time," she whined.

He could take the tears and the pouting in small doses, but her monthly allowance had dried up and he was ready for hard-as-nails Trish to show back up. "You're the one that told me to go the fuck away, Stratus," he accused, hoping to get a response out of her.

Trish threw her arms into the air and fell back on the bed again. "Can I call for a take-back, then?" When he didn't answer, she put a hand over her face and shook her head. "I just didn't know it was gonna be this hard. And I didn't know that I was gonna go back to work, and it was gonna suck."

"So you're just gonna lay down and die to it all?" Randy stomped his foot and clasped his hands behind his head, heaving a sigh of disbelief. "The Trish I love wouldn't do that. The Trish I love would take this bull shit circumstance and turn it into a fight, on her own terms. And she would win it, no matter how she had to pick up the victory.

"She would take this whole situation and kick it in the balls until it hit the mat. Trisha, baby, look at me," he instructed. She turned her head, but made no attempt to sit up. Randy rolled his eyes. "You took on Triple H, in a No Disqualifications match, and you won. You were fearless, and you showed the world that you're not a woman," he stated firmly. "You're a champion."

"Not for long, if Vince has his way," she spewed cynically.

And that's when Randy had enough. He hadn't become the youngest World Heavyweight Champion in history by whining, crying, and complaining. And he wasn't about to tolerate the behavior from anyone else he loved, either. "Alright," he said, waving his arm at her. "Get off your ass." She looked surprised. "Come on, get up," he instructed.

Her movements were slow and deliberate as she sat, groaning as her feet hit the floor. Moving toward her, Randy grabbed her shoulders and patted her cheek a little more firmly than most girls would have liked. But Trish wasn't most girls, and he knew she could take it, even if she didn't want to. The look in his eyes held nothing but affection, and it wasn't something he had meant for harm, but Trish wasn't sure she liked it. "That was dangerously close to a smack, Mr. Orton," she warned.

With a daring look in his eyes, Randy raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Does that make you mad?" He watched her eyes flare up. "Good. Maybe you need to be pissed off again."

She took a step back, unsure of what had taken him over. "You don't know what it's like. Being a woman in this business? Treated like a second-class citizen? It's bull shit, Randy, and I'm sick of being walked on. I just wanna watch a movie, and eat ice cream, and be your girlfriend. Can we just do that?"

"As soon as you realize that you are acting like one of those slut-bitch divas," he answered. He could almost swear he heard her hiss. "Listen to me," he held her cheeks in his hands, and ran his thumb over the spot he had tapped. "You are not a victim, okay?" She bit her lip. "We're not victims, Trish. We spit in the face of people who think we should bow to their greatness. We demand respect. We will not go down in history as champions by accident. And we are not fuckin' quitters."

She stood stock-still, watching the passion in his eyes as he ran his hands up and down her arms, shaking her shoulders like a coach, sending her into the biggest game of her career. In a way, he was. If she chose to fight this time, it wouldn't be a meaningless battle in the ring. It would be all-out war.

And then it clicked. Randy's blue eyes held a determination and a belief that ignited the fire in her gut.

Sure, she had taken on Triple H, but he was her friend, and she had done it to prove that she couldn't be controlled. The entire WWE system of operations was so much bigger than even The Game, and when she launched this offensive, it wasn't just for her own sanity. This was for V, and Lita. It was for Ivory, Molly, Gail, Nidia, Jazz, and all the other women who had lost their jobs because they were good at them. It was for those women in OVW, TNA, the regionals, and the indies, who dreamed of getting to where she was, only to find out that it was really no different. And it was for every girl who sat at home and watched them on television, dreaming of someday doing what they did.

She almost laughed as she kissed Randy hard and drove him onto the bed. They had said they wanted the passionate, firey Trish that they had seen with Triple H a few months ago? She could do it, but that had been a mere rebellion, and that wouldn't be enough. No, they deserved more, and more is what she would deliver.

She would give them a No-Holds-Barred, Go-For-Broke, Take-No-Prisoners, Mother-Fucking Revolution.


	3. Who's Afraid of a Little Suicide?

**Blaze of Glory**

**(Formerly Dying Embers, aka The Emancipation of Trish Stratus II)**

_A/N: Somewhere between going to bed last night, and waking up this morning, my entire outline for this story has changed - thus, the title had to change as well. Oh well, shit happens, right? Anyway, thanks for the reviews. I'm glad to know that you're all enjoying it out of the gate. It's a lot of pressure to release a sequel that lives up to the drama of its predecessor, so I'm taking that seriously. I don't own anyone you may see, or hear from, in this chapter - do I really have to keep telling you this? Enjoy.

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"I have never seen anyone look so," John stopped and searched for the right word as Trish modeled her new "costume" for him, "miserable?" She looked cute, in her Chain Gang Hottie tee shirt, and her little shorts, which seemed to be fashioned out of old football pants. He laughed slightly and then motioned to the couch in his dressing room.

Shoving his championship belt out of the way, Trish flopped to the leather and let out a sigh. "This is bull shit, John," she stated, resting her elbows on her knees, and then dropping her head into her hands.

The WWE champion watched his friend run her fingers through her perfectly curled hair, and he felt bad. He didn't want a valet. He didn't want people thinking he was anything but free and available. And he certainly didn't want Trish, who he believed was fully capable of kicking his ass in the ring, wasting her time standing on the outside.

He had been right there with her through some of her toughest battles, and to see her reduced to this was just irritating. "Why don't you just change into that sexy tee shirt Randy gave you?"

Trish cast a longing look at her gym bag and then sighed. The final gift that Randy had brought to Milwaukee was a custom tee that a friend had designed. She wanted to put it on, but knew that it would have to wait. "I gotta do this, John," she resigned, slamming her head back to the couch behind her as her cell phone rang.

She had no need for the caller ID, as she had set each of her wrestling friends' entrance music as their ring tones on her phone. "What is it, man?" she asked. Dave Batista was not one to call her before a taping just to say "hi."

There was an amused chuckle from the other end of the phone. "It's a pleasure to talk to you this evening, as well, Miss Stratus," he teased. She just rolled her eyes at John, who smiled and went back to his warm-up stretches. "Just thought I'd call to see how my favorite Women's Champion was doing," Batista added.

With a chortle, Trish shook her hair and stood, looking over her outfit once again. "I'm just peachy. Standin' here, lookin' like a fuckin' cheerleader, and feelin' like I'm on top of the world," she spat sarcastically. "Is it still against the rules to drink before going to the ring?" She flopped back onto the couch with a dramatic flair that only John could appreciate.

Batista laughed again, something she wasn't all that used to with him. Normally, it was she, Randy, and Cena laughing while he sat around and rolled his eyes. "Only at tapings," he reminded. "You nervous? Tonight's the big night, right?"

Looking at her manicured nails, Trish bit her lip. "Indeed," she answered softly, her stomach flip-flopping for a moment. Tonight was the night she fired the warning shot. If things went well, she wouldn't have to do anything stupid or crazy. If everything went according to plan, Vince would see her value in the ring, and stop this ridiculous "diva" bull shit.

"Well, I don't want you to be too nervous or nothing, but we're gonna be watchin' ya, okay?" Trish didn't answer, so Batista cleared his throat. "Um, there's someone here who wants to talk to you."

Trish waited for Randy to take the phone, but the gruff voice that greeted her ears sent a chill down her spine. "Trish? It's Taker."

She bolted upright on the couch with a jolt that brought John to her side immediately, his eyes wide with concern. "What the hell?" she asked without thinking. He hated Randy, and she was sure that meant that he hated her, too. Was he going to threaten her?

He chuckled. The Undertaker – a man she respected second only to Triple H, maybe more as of late, was laughing softly in her ear. "Listen, I was talkin' to Batista this afternoon in the gym, and he filled me in on your plan for tonight."

She wasn't sure how she felt about her guys spilling her secrets. She couldn't just announce to Vince that she was going to blatantly defy his orders and wishes. But a sneak attack would be difficult if everyone in the business already knew what she was planning. "He did, huh?" she asked slowly, still not sure what was going on. Before she could process another thought, she blurted, "Don't kill my boyfriend."

There was another laugh, not nearly as sinister as the ones he let out on television. It was actually warm with amusement. "I'm not gonna kill him, kid. Tell ya the truth, I think your boy's got a lot of guts." He was quiet for a moment, and it was ominous, as if he were there in person. "Not a lot of brains, but a lot of guts."

She rolled her eyes. It was true. Of course, Randy started acting far more irrationally after they had started dating, so she was fairly certain she was to blame for his decrease in mental prowess. "Sorry – I just worry about him, ya know?"

When John realized that she was okay, and her shoulders had relaxed, he went back to prepping for his own match of the evening. Trish caught his eye and mouthed "Undertaker," waiting for his reaction. He seemed surprised, but he just nodded in response.

"Yeah? Well, he's pretty worried about you right now, too," Taker answered, making Trish's heart flop again. He had every right to worry about her. What she was about to do was not sane. "Hey, I gotta get ready for tonight's house show, but I just wanted to let you know that, if you need reinforcements, I'm in your corner, alright?" She gasped, but didn't answer him. "Alright. Well, I'll see you later, Trish."

And he was gone. Batista was back on the phone, but Trish was barely listening. The Undertaker had just offered to help her fight Vince and Co., without even being asked. Maybe there were still people in this company who cared more about wrestling than buy rates. Maybe there were still people who thought that fighting for what you believed in was more important than selling magazines, tee shirts, and swimsuit calendars. Then again, maybe he was just waiting to welcome her to the his side, the dead one, when she failed miserably.

A Production Assistant appeared at the door, informing Cena that his match was next. Trish sighed, handed him his belt, and then hoisted hers over her shoulder. This was it. In roughly thirty minutes, Trish was going to redefine the term "suicide dive." And, for once in her life, she was terrified.


	4. Was This the Master Plan?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: Alright, if you've read my stories much in the past, you know I don't like to do a lot of commentary. I think a really good writer should just be able to get around her (or his) personal feelings about Creative and whatever else, and write a great story. But in writing this one, something really started to bite my ass. There are no good "heels" left on RAW. _

_Triple H was easy for the last story, because he really is "That Damn Good" at what he does. Sure, there are characters I don't like, but that doesn't make them great heels, ya know? Remember when The Rock was a great asshole that we could all love? Or what about Shawn Michaels, in the DX days? Admit it - even Orton was good at being a cocky blowhard, wasn't he? Jericho was a good heel. (Side bar: Trish is a great heel, but since I've turned her into a "face" for story purposes, I'm not counting her here) They were good because they talked a lot of shit, but they had even more talent to back it up. It's just not fun to hate someone who sucks in the ring - at least, in my opinion._

_Anyway, in shooting for "realism" as I try to do in every story, I had to deal with the chump nuts that are running around RAW as "bad guys" currently, so here's what I came up with. I hope I was able to weave it into a believable plot for you. If you hate me for the preceding statements after reading this chapter, shoot me an e-mail - I'd be happy to debate it with you, or at least try to explain myself._

_If you're still reading this note, I just wanted to say "thanks" to those of you who have been faithfully reviewing this story. I appreciate it more than you know. I hope you continue to enjoy it as much as I love getting your feedback. Oh, and I don't own 'em. If I did, the 'bad guys' would be better - I promise.

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Trish paced her hotel room like a caged animal. A wounded, caged animal. Her head was pounding, and her back felt like it was on fire. She was, frankly, surprised that her legs were supporting her weight, let alone performing the strenuous act of stalking the room. But the worst part was the sinking, nauseous feeling in her gut.

It didn't make sense. None of it made any sense. Neither she, nor Randy, had made enemies with any of them. At least, not that she could remember. And, as far as she knew, none of them really spent much time together outside of the ring. So why had they attacked her at ringside after John's match?

The plan was for John to beat Renee Dupree to an almost incoherent state – which wasn't difficult, by any means – and then distract the referee while Trish finished him off. She was going to deliver a Chick Kick, and some other jaw-dropping, impromptu maneuver. Then she would get the hell out of the ring and wait for John to give an F-U, and pick up his victory. The French Phenom was not much in the way of stepping stones, but she knew that she had to use whatever she could take as a sign to the higher up's that she was ready, willing, and more than able to get back in the ring.

But somewhere in the middle of the match, she started to get an uneasy feeling. It was the kind of gut-knowledge that someone was watching her, waiting for her to make a move. She had dismissed it as nerves, or paranoia, or even the unsettling need to make Randy proud of her while he watched his girl in action. She couldn't back out – this was big, and it was important. She had to show that she was back in fighting form, and willing to take on anyone, even the boys, to strengthen the reputation of the Women's Division.

The plan had worked, too. After about five minutes of decimating Dupree, Cena slid out of the ring and went for his belt, seemingly intent on inflicting a little more damage to the Frenchman. He made no attempt to hide his actions from the referee, who took the bait and turned his back on the man inside.

Dupree struggled to sit, and then made his way to wobbly legs when Trish slid under the bottom rope and nailed him in the chest with a Chick Kick. His head hit the mat hard and she launched herself toward the ropes, executing the Lionsault just as Jericho had taught her when they were dating. Following it up with an elbow-drop for good measure, she slid out of the ring as John dropped the belt and the ref turned back to the action, only to find Dupree in the same position as before – flat on his back, gasping for air.

After the F-U, and the announcement of victory, Trish stood at the base of the ramp and waited as John launched himself into a jubilant sea of Chain Gang. She was so sure that she had done everything right, that everything had gone according to plan, that she hadn't even noticed them approaching.

She sure as hell noticed, though, when Snitsky hit her in the back of the head with that fuckin' chair. The pain was sudden, and intense, but before she could recover, she felt her arms being raised above her head as Masters applied his stupid Master Lock, forcing her chin to her chest as he shook her tiny body with all of his strength.

She didn't remember anything after that, but she woke up in the training room with an angry, expletive-spewing Cena, and a whole lot of chewed-up apple on her face, and in her hair. Apparently, the IC champ had decided to add insult to injury by spitting on the unconscious women's champion.

She knew how they could do it – all three of them were easily amused by their own antics. Snitsky liked watching someone bleed after a chair shot at his hands. And Masters got off on making people half his size pass out. Carlito found the humiliation and degradation of anyone who wasn't himself extremely entertaining.

What she didn't understand was why they had done it. What would motivate any of them to attack her? She hadn't been around that much since any of them had arrived on RAW, and when she was, she certainly wasn't crossing their paths. She would have understood Edge, or even Kane, being pissed because of how she had treated Lita. And she could see Eugene holding a grudge for the way she had dissed his good friend, Christy. She could even justify Tomko wanting a piece for the way she had ended things with Christian. Maybe if Hurricane and Rosey didn't like the way she had handled her issues with Stacy in the past, she could have seen their point.

But these three chump nuts had never spoken a collective sentence to her since they had signed their contracts, as far as she could remember. None of them had any reason to want her broken and disabled. Did they?

Her musings were interrupted by the hotel door, which she had forgotten to lock, flying open, nearly falling off its hinges. "Are you okay?"

She turned slowly and rolled her eyes as Hunter slammed the door behind himself and made his way over to her. "I'm fine," she assured him, cringing when he reached for her neck and tried to turn her head. "Except when you do that," she insisted, stepping away from him.

He looked her over critically, a flood of concern in his eyes. "What the hell were you doing out there? Are you just trying to get yourself killed now?"

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. "Why are you here?" she asked.

He sat on the bed and mirrored her expression. "Orton's called me, like, three times, demanding to know what the hell is going on with you."

She huffed. That was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. Even before she and her old friend had fallen out, Randy hated him more than anyone on the planet. "Why would Randy call you?" she asked, rolling her eyes and limping toward the bed, lowering herself beside him.

"Cena had a concert tonight?" Hunter reminded. Trish shrugged. "Apparently, Victoria's not answering her phone, and yours," he reached into his pocket and held it up in front of her, "was on the floor in the locker room."

She took the phone and flipped it open. Seven missed calls. "I'll call him," she assured, closing the phone again. As soon as she had an answer for him. But Hunter didn't budge when she stood and started toward the door. "I said I'll call him." He just glared at her. "What?" He still didn't speak. "Thanks for bringing my phone back?"

Clearing his throat, he slid his sport coat over his shoulders and laid it gingerly on the bed behind him. "Just exactly what are you trying to do, Trish?" he asked. Before she could answer, he held up a hand. "Because if it's what I think it is, you're losing your touch."

His smirk made her blood boil. "I'm not trying to do anything," she demanded, knowing it sounded weak and childish. But she had been battered and beaten by three guys that made her want to wretch, and she wasn't going to apologize for being slow with the comebacks.

"Bull shit," Hunter answered, still unsure of why he was there himself. He should have been doing everything he could to end her career. He should have been intent on revenge for everything she had put him through over the last few months. But guilt, and something deeper, kept him from holding the grudge.

He had been the one who demanded she ref his match against Orton at Unforgiven, hoping to teach her for turning her back on him. And he had been the one holding the barbed-wire wrapped lead pipe that, although inadvertent, sank into her head that night, nearly killing her. He had been the one that put her in this position in the first place. Sort of.

If he wanted to split hairs, he could place all the blame on Orton. Or on Trish herself. But at the heart of it all, she was still his Trishter. No matter how he tried to kick against the bond, it was still strong. Families had disagreements, fights, and falling-outs. But real families got through them, and they still loved each other, even when they didn't understand each other. And he wanted to get through this one with her.

"What do you want me to say, Hunter?" Trish asked, throwing her hands into the air and then cringing against the pain that shot up her spine. "You want me to say that I'm happy valeting for John? Or that I'm just overjoyed that I never get to see Randy anymore? You want me to say that I'm willing to do whatever Vince says, just waiting for the day when you guys deem me "ready to return"? If I ever sat back and waited for someone else to see the potential in me, I'd still be on my hands and knees in the ring, barking like a dog for Vince's amusement," she sighed and fought tears at the memory from the early days of her career.

An unexpected anger flared in his chest at that statement. He could still remember the moment, like it was yesterday. And he could still remember wanting to punch his future father-in-law in the face for the way he had degraded Trish that night. "What I want," he sighed, pushing the rage down, "is for you to watch this tape from tonight and tell me what the hell you were thinking, joining forces with those jack asses."

Trish's mouth gaped open as Hunter stood and put the tape into the VCR in her room. "Joining forces?" she shrieked. He turned, remote in hand, and raised his eyebrow. "You think that was my plan? To have Snitsky, Masters, and Carlito attack me? Are you completely fucking retarded?"

With an incredulous look, he waited for her to explain. When she didn't, he sat on the edge of the bed and motioned for her to join him. "Not like it's easy to follow your thought patterns lately, Stratus," he pointed out, pressing play. "If you didn't set it up, why the hell would those three people, specifically, target you?"

Trish watched the action on the screen, as the camera focused on her, the three approaching her from behind. She didn't know if this was supposed to help anything, but hearing the crowd shout for her to turn around just made her feel even more stupid for not seeing it coming. The attack was blatant, and brutal. She fell like a bag of bones when Snitsky hit her, and then Masters lifted her like a doll.

But her eyes narrowed as Carlito bit into his apple, looked around, smirked smugly over his shoulder, and then turned to spit on her. "Wait!" Hunter hit the 'pause' button. "Rewind it." He did, and she watched again. "Right there," she pointed to the screen. The action stopped again as Trish snapped her fingers and pointed to something in the upper left corner. "Zoom in," she snapped her fingers.

Hunter rolled his eyes. "Trish, it's a VCR," he reminded her.

"Then come here," she motioned frantically, but he stayed seated. "It's fuckin' Coach," she spat, tapping the screen with her fingernail again. "When Carlito looks over his shoulder, Coach nods and points at me. He knew about this," she accused, turning back to look at Hunter.

"Coach knew that Carlito, Snitsky, and Masters were going to attack you?" His voice said that it was crazy, but his eyes said that he didn't doubt it was a possibility. "How would he know that?"

"Because he's up Bischoff's ass?" she stated. "Because Bischoff told them to do it." It didn't matter if Hunter thought she was crazy, she knew what was going on now. "Because they're paranoid, Bischoff and Vince. Vince told me himself that he couldn't fire me. And they know that I'm capable of doing something without their permission, and they wanted to show me that they still have the control. And hey," she threw her hands up, "if I happen to lose five or six years off the end of my career because these ogres are cheap-shotting me, then that solves their problem."

He sighed and nodded in concession. It was entirely possible, though it sounded kind of outrageous. If something so devious was going on behind the scenes, he would have known about it, and he hadn't heard 'word one' about any plan to contain Trish. "If that's the case," he started slowly, trying to think of how to approach her. It was clear, from the crazed look in her eye, that she was about to launch into Psycho-Trish mode once again, "then this is too big for you to handle, Trish." He stood and took his coat in his hands. "Why don't you let me sniff around, see what I can find, and what I can do to stop it?"

She bit her lip and put her hands on her hips. "Right," she laughed. "Because you really think that's going to happen." Hunter raised an eyebrow, and Trish's stomach sank to her toes. "You don't think I can take care of myself, do you?" For some reason, no matter how much she told herself she didn't care what he thought anymore, the idea that he didn't believe in her abilities hurt.

Watching her eyes cloud with disappointment, he reached out a large hand and rested it on her shoulder. "Look, Trish, this is not me you're talking about taking on. You're not trying to deal with someone who gives a damn about you personally. You're dealing with people who see you as property now. People who see you as a tradable commodity, a thing. You can't just run off, half-cocked like you did with me, and expect them to be blinded by their feelings for you."

She swallowed the lump that formed at the emotion in his voice. He still cared about her. Or he wanted her to believe that he did. She turned her head to the side and watched him for a moment. "You're one of them now," she spoke softly, though it wasn't an accusation. It was almost a reminder.

He just slid his jacket over his shoulders and fished his car keys out of his pocket. "Which gives me an inside look into how they work. And I know that, if they're trying to force you into retirement, or a bra and panties, or whatever the fuck else they have in mind, they won't stop until they have succeeded. It's gonna take a hell of a lot more fuckin' thought than you've put in, if you want to beat them."

She smiled at him, a sly smile that always worked when she was trying to get her way with Randy. Of course, she wasn't trying to lure Hunter into her bed because, well, ew! But he seemed to soften at the expression. "The kinda thing I might need the Cerebral Assassin for?" she asked.

Shrugging, he moved toward the door. "This isn't my fight, Trish. I don't care if the Women's Division disappears or not," he gave her the truth she didn't want to hear. "But I do have one thing that they don't. I have the sense to know that you're good for this business, regardless of how many egos you may step on." He held his arms out and wrapped her in a brotherly hug and kissed the top of her head before releasing her. "You lay low for a little while. I'll do the recon, but then I'm out. It's your war, and I'm not takin' shrapnel in the ass for you or anyone else."

Trish laughed and patted his arm as she opened the door, the opening strains of "Burn in My Light" filling the room. "I better go make sure he doesn't have a coronary." Hunter nodded, put on his 'bad ass' face for anyone who might be wandering the halls, and then disappeared as Trish raced for her phone.

No one would doubt that she had the guts to take on the company – she had proven her intestinal fortitude time and time again. But Hunter was right. She wasn't ready mentally. And he hadn't said it, but she also knew she wasn't ready physically.

Randy's call went to voice mail before she could reach it, but she didn't call him back. Instead, she dialed another number she knew by heart. "Hey. It's Trish. . . I'm gonna need your help. . . No, my back's fine. . . Yeah, sore, but fine. Hey, do you remember that time when you said you had a couple of new moves to show me?" She giggled and looked toward the sky, as if she'd just received her salvation. "Can we start first thing tomorrow?"


	5. How's That Rejection Taste?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: Thanks, guys, for all of your reviews. This story has been a little bit of a struggle to write, and you're being so supportive. I love that - it's awesome. For any of you who thought I forgot about Randy - lookie here - he gets his very own chapter. How could I snub him after that uber-hot run-in on last night's Smackdown, right? Oh, and for those of you who thought you were going to find out who the top-secret trainer is in this chapter? Come on. Did you really think I would give you a sequel to The Emancipation, a story built on it's secrecy, without a little nugget of "I'm not telling yet"? Soon, you will find out, but for now - he's a big secret, explained only in pronouns. Sorry - but don't stop reading! And you know I don't own them, but in case you recently lost the Master Lock challenge, I'll remind you again. They're not mine - I don't own them. Enjoy!

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By the time he got to the hotel bar after the night's taping, Randy cringed to see that half the roster had already shown up. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy a post-show party as much as the next guy, but it had already been a bad night, and he wasn't ready for more fake smiles and pretend happiness. His head was throbbing, his back hurt from a cheap shot at Super Crazy's hand, and he couldn't get ahold of Trish. Again.

In the beginning, they had called each other three or four times a day. It was like being apart was the worst fate either of them could imagine. Over time, they slowed down, making a nightly call before bed count for the whole day. But even before he had shown up to surprise her three weeks earlier, those calls were proving a challenge. Sometimes he just wanted to hang with the guys. And he knew that she was avoiding his calls, too. And since her latest attack on RAW, she had been next to impossible to reach. He now found himself settling for telling her voice mail that he loved her. The only comfort was that she usually returned that sentiment to his phone, as well.

The fact that she had cancelled their upcoming, three-day getaway to be with another guy wasn't sitting well with him, either. Sure, it was just training, and he trusted his girl completely. Hell, he trusted him completely, too. But he wanted to be the one watching her sweat while she bit her lip and listened carefully to everything he said. He wanted to be the one helping her repeat each move, the determination and focus etched on her beautiful face, until she perfected it. Training with Trish had come to be one of his favorite "couple" activities, and he hated the thought of someone else sharing it.

"Hey, Orton!" His thoughts were broken by Booker T's gravelly voice.

Turning, he offered a half-hearted grin, moving toward the table. The veteran was flanked on either side by his wife, Sharmell, and three of the Smackdown divas. "What's up, man?" Randy asked, accepting the handshake Booker was offering.

"Why don't you have a seat and buy a couple of these ladies a drink, man?" Booker offered, nodding to the woman around him. "Help lighten the burden on a brother's wallet, you know?"

Surveying the room quickly, he noted Batista at a table in the back, intently focused on whatever Taker was telling him. He didn't want to be the bratty little kid, but sometimes he hated that one of his best friends had come to Smackdown with him, only to spend all of his time learning at the feet of the fuckin' Undertaker. The guy was a legend, no doubt, but what about the Legend Killer? Hadn't they been through enough together to warrant a little "guy time" now and then?

When he looked back at the table, Torrie Wilson and Michelle McCool were motioning to the chair between them. Randy shrugged simply and moved to sit, shedding his leather jacket and draping it over the high back of the chair. What the hell? It wasn't like he was doing anything wrong. Hey, at least these girls wanted him around. "What d'ya say, Tor?" he turned to the blonde on his left. "Think your husband'll mind me buyin' you a drink?"

Shaking her head, Torrie cast a longing look at her wedding band. "No more than your girlfriend will," she stated.

With a smile, he watched the waitress approach. Torrie placed her order and he turned to his right. "What about you, 'Chelle?"

Being this close to her reminded Randy of the times he had been in the ring with the Diva Search contestants. Most of them weren't worth a second look, in his opinion. But sitting next to Michelle reminded him that she was one who had actually managed to impress him. She was the one that he thought might show some real wrestling ability someday. She was no Trish, but the few times she had been inside the ropes, she hadn't sucked too badly. At least there was some potential there.

Shaking her blonde ponytail, Michelle held up her hand. "I can buy my own drink," she assured him.

"Oh, my God," he rolled his eyes and handed a bill to the waitress, motioning to himself and the women on either side of him. When his eyes met Booker's across the table, he laughed. "It's like being out with Trish," he commented.

"Well," Michelle leaned on the table as the waitress moved from their table to another. "I always thought Trish was pretty cool."

Randy was surprised to find a lump of emotion in his throat. Fortunately, a commotion at the door diverted his attention from the painful thoughts Trish's memory evoked. "Let me ask you a question," he leaned back in his chair and angled his shoulder toward Michelle, but mused loud enough for all of the women to hear. "What is it about that guy? I mean, chicks dig him, right?"

Michelle and Candice let their gazes drift to the door, where Christian was working the room like a pro. He strutted from table to table, winking at the groupies, and kissing ass with the power players. "He's confident?" Candice offered, as though she just wasn't sure what it was.

It took Michelle a little longer to answer, as she watched him carefully. "He's cute," she stated, hands folded on the table in front of her. "And he's kinda funny – not that he's trying to be," she added. "He's not my type, but I can see how he could be someone's."

He had been Trish's, at one time. And no matter how much he tried to respect the guy in the ring, Randy couldn't seem forget all the locker room bragging Christian had done when he was dating Trish. At the time, Randy had thought she was just an average diva slut, too, so the stories hadn't surprised him. He could clearly remember Christian telling them all how rough she liked it, and about how he was going to get as much sex as he could, and then he was going to kick her ass to the curb. It had seemed like a good idea to the young Legend Killer at the time, but now it made him want to throw up. That was the future mother of his children the Creepy Little Bastard had talked about that way.

"Michelle," Christian stopped next to her chair and gave her that seedy grin he liked to throw around so much.

Randy wanted to punch him, but was afraid that would look like he was defending Michelle. The last thing his and Trish's relationship needed, at this point, was some rumor that he was interested in someone else. Gripping his beer bottle, Randy took a drink and met Booker's eye again. It was evident that the older man was no more pleased with this jack ass's presence than Randy was.

"What's up, Christian?" Michelle asked, her easy, Southern drawl dripping with artifical sweetener when she looked up at him.

"Not much. I saw you sittin' over here," he started, one hand in his pocket as the other rested casually on the back of her chair. "Thought maybe we could go get a drink, maybe talk a little?"

Randy heard a snicker from his left and leaned over to pat Torrie on the back when Christian actually winked at Michelle. "You alright?" he whispered out the corner of his mouth.

Torrie gulped another drink from the glass in front of her and nodded, hiding her laughing mouth with her long, thin hand. There were tears in her eyes when Randy looked over at her, a smile finally fighting it's way to his lips as well.

Michelle nodded and put on an apologetic face, much to the amusement of everyone else at her table. "Thanks, Christian, for the offer," she smiled, raising her glass. "But I've already got a drink."

He shrugged and looked at Randy, knowing full well that the arrogant piss-ant was laughing at him. "From Orton? Come on, Michelle. He's practically married," he leaned low, whispering something in her ear. When he stood, there was a triumphant smile on his lips.

The diva's cheeks flushed a bright pink as she looked to the table, and then the floor, before shaking her head. "Um, I don't even know how to do that, Christian," she stammered for words.

With another wink, he told her to think about it and then come find him at the bar. "Ah, come on, Christian," Randy called after the man. "You don't have to leave." He received a middle finger for his "friendly" gesture. "Man, he didn't have to move to another table," he told the girls around him. "With the four of you, there's more than enough rejection for one night. He could have pulled up a chair."

The girls giggled at his joke and then went on asking him questions. None of them were Trish – none of them would lean their sloppy drunk frames on his shoulder while he carried them to bed later after this party ended. None of them would roll their eyes and tell him that they were not too drunk as their legs got all tangled in their jeans, launching them onto the floor of the hotel. None of them would giggle at random intervals for most of the night, driving him to kiss the back of their necks and softly profess his love for them a hundred times before the sun came up. None of them would ever be her.

But they were just flirty enough to make him feel like the sexy guy he used to know he was. And they were talking to him enough to make him feel like he might actually still be interesting to someone. Hell, they were acknowledging him, and that was enough of a difference between them and Trish, at least for one night.


	6. What's Your Weakness?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: I just have to say thanks, again, for all the great reviews. You guys are the best, and I appreciate all of your feedback. I hope you all know that by now. This chapter is kind of long, and I hope it's not too tedious. I think it's neccessary, obviously, or it wouldn't be in here, but I hope it's not boring or anything. I don't own any of them. And, as always, I hope you enjoy it.

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There was a time when Trish thought that voice mail was the greatest invention in recent history. But that was before she had tried, and failed, to reach anything but Randy's for two days. She had been busy, training and planning and focusing, but she missed him. And not hearing his constant, supportive, and comforting words was wearing on her.

When she got the message for the third time, she growled and rolled her eyes. "Baby, it's me – again. Look, I just wanted to tell you that I miss you and that I wish you were hear tonight. Um, I guess I'll try to catch you later. I miss talking to you," she sighed and started to hang up. "I love you."

As she flipped the phone shut, her door opened and she turned to see her new trainer enter. "Hey, man. I didn't expect to see you here tonight," she chuckled softly, watching him pace the room for a minute before turning intense eyes to her. "Something wrong?"

"Are you ready?" He didn't stop moving, looking her over. "Are you ready for anything?"

She bit her lip. She thought she was ready. She certainly didn't doubt her decision to start training with him. If anything, it was the best part of her entire plan. He had done everything he could to teach her more in three weeks than she had learned in her previous five years of training. He was patient to show her the same move twenty times, if she just wasn't getting it. But he was determined not to move on until she had mastered everything he was teaching her.

More than a little pride filled her chest, as she thought about how her body had changed over the last couple of weeks. She had lost nearly ten pounds of fat, but had gained almost fifteen in muscle. Her arms were sculpted, and her thighs were toned. Her abs, though, were becoming a thing of cut beauty. Like rocks, they were hard and defined, a result of all the lifting he had made her do, and the countless sit ups that she had endured.

"I'm not ready to be seen in my underwear," she stated, thinking about the Bra & Panties match she was booked in later in the night.

"Then don't let Christy beat you," he shrugged, his smile showing for the first time.

At the sound of such a notion, she huffed and did a couple of impromptu jumping jacks. "That little ho's got nothin' on me, man," she sighed.

But he rolled his eyes. "I seem to remember a few months ago, was it August? Yeah, before Summer Slam, Trish. I remember watchin' my TV and seein' that little ho take your title. Didn't I see that?"

It wasn't the first time he had tried to get inside her head, making her doubt herself. He was good at helping her diversify her maneuver portfolio – the best she could have chosen, she knew. But what she hadn't banked on was the fact that he was always trying to get inside her head, making her doubt herself, strengthening her mental resistance. And it was paying off in spades. She no longer made excuses for her losses – she learned from them. He could prod and poke at her past failures, but she couldn't buckle. She couldn't lose focus. She wouldn't.

"You saw that," she acknowledged. "But I'm not that woman anymore, man. I'm not the girl who can be distracted by a little entrance music," she assured.

He nodded, but looked unconvinced as he sank to the couch in her dressing room. "I hear you say it. But I've seen you attacked in the ring three weeks in a row," he reminded, leaning back against the soft leather and letting out a sigh. "I've seen you take chair shots, boots to the face, full nelson submissions, and body slams. I've seen you off your guard enough to be taken from behind."

A small smirk tweaked her lips, but his expression said that he had meant no innuendo. Clearing her throat, Trish shook her head and felt her curls swishing around her shoulders. "I'm expecting it tonight, man. Nobody's takin' me from behind. If they want me tonight – they're gonna have to take me face to face."

Finally, a proud smile spread across his lips as he stood and patted her shoulder. He was nothing, if not passionate and intense about this business. And to think that Trish had acquired some of that fire from him, that the blaze in her soul had been stoked, in any way, by his influence, made him proud. "Alright, then," he nodded and made his way for the door. "I just stopped by to make sure you were focused." As her cell phone rang, he groaned. "Trish?"

She turned dark eyes to him, cell phone in hand. She knew that he was about to tell her that she shouldn't be talking to anyone so close to her scheduled match. If she listened to him, she would lock herself away from any and all contact at least an hour before every taping or house show.

But it was Randy. She nodded and waited until her coach had left the room, praying that the phone would still be ringing. "Hello?"

His relieved sigh filled her ears and she felt a reassuring peace washing over her. "Is this my totally sexy, kick-ass girlfriend?" his voice finally asked.

Trish gave him the giggle, the one she knew turned him inside out. "Depends. Is this my totally sexy, amazing boyfriend?"

"God, Trish," he said softly and then stopped. She heard him breathing, but waited for him to say something. Anything. "I miss you."

If she didn't know her Randy better, she would have sworn his voice cracked. But her man didn't cry. Even on the night that they had packed all of their bags and headed toward opposite coasts for the first time, he had been stone-faced. He hadn't been happy – she could tell that much – but he didn't break. "I want you to come back to RAW," she whimpered.

It wasn't strong. Her new trainer would be kicking her ass for the whiney noises she was making. It was pure weakness, but she was the first to admit that Randy Orton was her weakness. She could get around it, steel herself to it, and forget about him when she was training or when she finally carried out this plan they had been formulating. But when his voice was in her ear, she couldn't deny that, if he asked her to quit, she would do it in a second.

"I want you to throw this Bra & Panties match tonight," he teased, a smile creeping into his voice. "Can't you just lose one? For your sex-deprived boyfriend?"

Trish laughed and moved back toward her couch, sinking to it's inviting embrace as she drew her legs to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. "Maybe I can just send you some snap-shots later?" He groaned, and she knew that it was going to be more than he could take in a matter of moments. "Can I ask you a question, Randy?"

It was simply stated, but the vulnerable sound of her voice broke his heart. "You can ask me any fuckin' thing you want, baby."

Clearing her throat, she picked at the sequins on her pants and imagined his handsome face. His clear blue eyes would be drilling through her if he were there. There would be nothing but interest and concern reflecting in those crystal pools, if he were there. He would be holding her hips with one hand and brushing her blonde hair away from her shoulder with the other. He would be waiting for her to speak, and she would be waiting until actual sentences would form in her mind. And they would just be standing there, or sitting, in completely silence, enjoying each other.

"Thing is, Trisha," he finally broke her thoughts. "That whole 'sitting in silence' thing only works if we're together."

"Not if you have a good imagination," she stated, a hint of seduction in her voice. She tried, for a moment, to remember what she had been about to ask. "How far is too far?"

"Huh?"

She shook her head. It was something she had wondered on more than one occasion since deciding to buckle down and get serious with this thing. It was something she was forced to ask every day in her training and preparing. And it was something that she knew could turn her world on it's ear. She knew that this was the question that could change everything for them.

"You know what's goin' on with me right now, and I just wanna know where the line is. I wanna know where the point of no return is for you." She stopped when he didn't answer. "Because you know that the only thing I care about more than my little crusade right now is. . ."

"Don't," he stopped her before she could finish the sentence. It was hard enough to know she was in another city, charming millions without him waiting behind the curtain. It was hard enough to know that she was laughing with the RAW guys without him to witness the hypnotic power of that magic giggle. He didn't need her questioning his, or her own, commitment, too.

"But," she started again.

"Nothing. Listen to me, Trisha," his voice was deep and it was firm. "There is no line, and there is no such thing as too fuckin' far, and there is no need to ever discuss this again." She grunted. His voice softened when he said, "You went through hell to make sure that we could be together, baby girl." For a moment, he contemplated the events of the last six months or so. "And I am not about to turn my back on that sacrifice that you made for anything."

There was a knock at the door of her dressing room and Trish cleared her throat, unwilling to end the call. "Yeah?" The PA stuck his head in the room and informed her that her match was next and they needed her at gorilla in three minutes. She waved the guy off. "Baby, I gotta go."

"I'll be watching," he promised. "Hey, Trish?"

"Hmm?"

"Remember number three." She thought back to the night she had fought Triple H for the World title at SummerSlam. "No matter what," he started, and then cleared his throat. "Don't roll your eyes at me, Stratus."

She laughed and stopped herself, mid-roll. He knew her, better than anyone had ever known her. "Fine. But don't be so fuckin' corny," she scolded. "I got a match to win."

And it was Randy's turn to let out a belly-rumbling laugh. "Fine. Just go and beat Christy Hemme, like I know you can, and keep your pants on. Make me wait to see you all next-to-naked for another three months. See what happens when you need your back had and I'm not there to have it."

She loved it when he pouted. "Baby, in two weeks, I promise you that you will have all of my back that you want. And my front," she suggested, throwing the door to her dressing room open and taking to the hallway, a beaming grin firmly in place.

"What are you talking about?"

Rounding the corner toward gorilla, Trish smiled at Victoria and then waved at Cena, who was talking to Maria. "You remember that hotel we went to in Cabo? Back before you left for Smackdown?" He grunted his affirmation. "Well, I reserved that suite that we had, and you and I are heading down in two weeks for a weekend," she licked her lips and smiled at one of the make-up girls.

"Have I told you how much I love you today?" Randy asked, excitement evident in his voice.

Trish shrugged and stopped near an equipment crate. "Probably. But feel free to tell me again," she offered. She could listen to those words spill over his lips all night.

Except, before he had a chance to say them one more time, Trish felt a shooting pain in her shoulder, screams from by-standers, and the pressure of something incredibly heavy holding her to the floor. She didn't even have time to contemplate her attacker this time, before the lights went out and the world faded from existence.


	7. Is This the Trish You Wanted?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: I feel like I'm running out of the original things to say. This chapter kinda speaks for itself. So, thanks for reviewing, if you have. And if you haven't, but you're enjoying the story - I'm not gonna beg for reviews. I'll just say "thanks" for reading. I don't own any of the proper names, places, or companies mentioned in this story. And, as always, Enjoy!

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Two weeks after yet another attack, Trish was supposed to be in Cabo for the weekend, drinking margaritas, sunning herself, and most importantly, fucking Randy until her legs were numb. Instead, she sat in the backseat of Victoria's car, watching the Detroit cityscape as they zipped down the highway toward Joe Louis Arena. She was not sporting a cute little bikini, and sipping from a glass with a little umbrella like she had planned. She, instead, sported a pair of well-worn jeans, the tee shirt Randy had given her, and a thin jacket, while snacking on her middle fingernail as she tried to focus on the task at hand.

Vince and his Board of Ass Kissers had done more than enough to show her who had the power in their less-than-mutual relationship. Each attack, she realized, was just another marketing ploy to them. By having Snitsky, Masters, and Carlito attack the crowd's favorite diva week after week, the Chairman of the Board was not only containing Trish, but also continuing to put the Three Stooges over as major heels. In retrospect, Trish had to admit, if only to herself, that it was pretty damn brilliant.

Of course, their plan contained one tiny flaw. They seemed to have forgotten, while sitting in their plush board room up in Titan Towers, that she was still Trish fuckin' Stratus. She had taken on Triple H to become the first female World Heavyweight Champion, without much preparation at all. At least, not much compared to the work she had done for them.

As Victoria paid the parking lot attendant, Trish smiled to herself. There had been speculation all over RAW and the internet as to where Trish Stratus had gone. She hadn't been seen on television, or at live events, since her attack at Carlito's hands two weeks prior. Some thought she was injured again. Others mused that she was in contract negotiations to move to Smackdown. One report she read stated that she was moving to a part-time schedule while making a movie for WWE Films. But her favorite was the rumor that, growing tired of the countless attacks and inside politics, she had turned in her resignation.

With the car parked near the top of the garage, Trish piled out and smoothed her tee shirt over her tight stomach, before zipping her jacket over the letters. Sharing determined looks with both Lita and Victoria, she tightened her ponytail and stretched her arms. All three jumped up and down a bit, swinging their shoulders and cracking their necks in a modified warm-up routine before heading to the building. It was 10:50 pm. In eighteen minutes, the show would go off the air for the night. In thirteen minutes, the revolution would begin.

Trish opened the door, flanked by her fellow crusaders, and thought about the impact they were about to make. V had been ready to join the army before Trish even asked her. She had known that her recent falling out with Lita would make it harder to convince her old friend, but the red-head had agreed fairly easily. She reasoned that, while she loved spending time in Edge's corner, there was only so much valeting that a real wrestler could take. She explained to Trish that she wanted the Women's title back around her waist sooner, rather than later, but she could only get a shot at it if Vince let Trish defend it again sometime before they all retired. They might not be friends anymore, not like they had once been, but this fight wasn't about that.

They got into the building fairly easily, through an unguarded door, and then found the hallway that would lead them to their marks. Trish checked her watch again. 10:55. Turning to the girls on either side of her, she pulled the baseball hat from her back pocket and slid it over her ponytail. "Last chance at backing out, ladies," she offered.

Victoria pulled her own hat low over her eyes and looked around for the door she would enter. "Not a chance in hell," she growled slightly.

The look in Lita's eyes was a little less convinced and Trish put her hands on her hips. "You don't have to do this, Li. It's my fight. If you don't want to help, or if you think it's gonna fuck things up with Edge," she started to excuse the woman. She did understand – if Randy had said he didn't want her doing it, she wasn't sure she would be going through with this either.

But as quickly as her eyes had filled with doubt, Lita's determination set back in and a dark expression covered her features. She shoved her own black baseball cap over her hair and threaded her ponytail through the hole in the back. "It's not your fight, Stratus," Lita stated, swinging her arms back and forth as she hopped from her right foot to her left and then looked from one of the woman to the other. "It's ours. We're the only ones left. If we don't do this, it dies. And everything we've accomplished dies with it."

In a matter of months, it seemed to Trish that the WWE had changed immensely. There were a lot of new champions, and a lot of new up-and-comers waiting in the wings. Edge was the WWE Champion. The Heartthrobs had somehow managed to win World Tag Team titles, though Trish wasn't exactly sure how that had happened. JBL had somehow come to RAW and taken the World title from Triple H, only to lose it again to Batista on Smackdown the same week. Christian now sported the US title, and Mysterio was once again the Cruiserweight man. She wasn't even sure when Randy had teamed up with Booker T, but they had scored the WWE Tag titles recently. Only Carlito and Trish remained the same.

But Trish wasn't the same. And she wasn't ready to die. She determined, as she headed into the arena and moved toward the stage, that no one would ever, EVER, forget Trish Stratus, or her contributions to the women's division of professional wrestling.

XXX

Edge was standing across the ring, waiting for Carlito to make it to his feet. The IC champion wobbled on spaghetti legs and then turned, somehow sinking his elbow into the champion's gut. Edge stumbled backward, knocking the referee into a previously-exposed turnbuckle. His eyes widened, but he said nothing as the following moments unfolded.

Before Carlito realized what was happening, three figures lept the barricade on three sides of the ring. Simultaneously, they slid under the bottom ropes, Victoria and Lita grabbing the IC champ's arms while Trish delivered a couple of kicks to his mid-section. She then motioned for Lita to join her as Victoria positioned herself behind Carlito's bulkier frame. She wrapped her arms under his and delivered a text-book version of the Widow's Peak.

When his body slumped forward, Trish turned, barely able to hear her own thoughts over the roar of the crowd. She motioned for Lita to go up high, and then stood back as her friend executed the moonsault. Carlito convulsed on the canvas for a moment before the ringleader motioned for her girls to lift the man again. She wasn't sure what she was going to do to him once he was standing, but the Chick Kick suddenly wasn't good enough.

A thought flashed through her mind, and before she could stop herself, she ran toward the opposite ropes, propelled herself forward, and jumped. It was the perfect RKO, and she smiled as Carlito hit the ring, face first, and then bounced all the way off and landed on his back. His leg was twisted in a strange angle, and she wondered if she had done that or if one of the others had.

All three women slid out of the ring again and motioned for Edge to pin the man who lay motionless in the center. He shook his head, smiled that creepy grin of approval, and then shouted for the ref to wake up. When Mike Chioda finally drug himself to the pile in the middle of the ring for the slowest 3-count in history, Edge picked up the victory, and Trish picked up a mic.

When the men were gone, she looked at her watch. 11:02. She had roughly five minutes left to let everyone know what she had come here for. Clearing her throat, she smiled down at medics helping Carlito limp up the ramp. "Hey, Bischoff," she smiled as the General Manager made an angry appearance at the top of the ramp. "You might wanna have someone look at that leg," she pointed to Carlito. "Looks like your IC champ might have broken something."

Bischoff lifted the microphone in his hands to respond, his face red. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Stratus?"

"I'm trying to explain myself," she stated simply, looking at the women around her. They shrugged, as if to ask what the older man's problem was. "Ya see, Eric, a lot of people have been asking me a lot of questions lately. And I thought I would come out here and tell them all face-to-face just what the hell is going on with Trish Stratus. I mean, I've been attacked inside and outside the ring. I've been valeting and working gimmick matches. Hell, even Vince said I don't seem like the old Trish lately.

"And I've heard a lot of theories. Maybe I just don't have that fire anymore because I'm still injured, ya know? Maybe that hit that Triple H gave me back at Unforgiven never quite healed right. Maybe it jostled something in my head." She paced from one side of the ring to the other, weaving in between Lita and Victoria, seemingly talking to herself. "Then again, maybe Trish just isn't the same because Orton's gone. Ya know, she was really in love with that Orton kid, and since he went to Smackdown? Well, the girl just hasn't been the same. Maybe that's why she's not herself anymore." She made her way to the ropes and leaned toward a guy on the floor with a large television camera pointed at her. "Well, I want everyone out there to forget about the old Trish. That girl is gone – she doesn't exist anymore. The old Trish was manipulated by her emotions, and she was crazy because of it.

This," she took a step back and smiled an evil, bone-chilling grin, "is the new Trish Stratus. And she's gonna make that old girl, the one that challenged Triple H for his title back at SummerSlam, look like a terrified school girl."

Eric was screaming something while covering his microphone and Trish looked up, meeting his eye with a cold glare. "Look at me, Bischoff. You tell Vince something for me, okay? You tell your boss that he wanted the fire. He was the one that asked for the passionate Trish – and now he's got her. He's got a whole blazing inferno on his hands, my friend." She held her Women's title over her head and unzipped her jacket. Nodding over her shoulders, Victoria and Lita did likewise. "But she's not alone, and she's not backing down."

The camera guy went straight for a shot of their shirts, and Trish smiled to see the white fabric, with the pink wording Randy had created, blasted across the Titantron. _Real Champions Don't Have a Penis_. No doubt, the network would have a cow and they would be blurred, but the crowd went crazy at the reveal, and she saw Victoria's and Lita's smiling faces beaming back at her from the enormous screen above their irate manager's head.

11:06. With the belt still raised, she made a final statement. "You know what, Eric? We're not scared, and we're not worried, about who you're gonna send after us next. Because I promise you this – you keep settin' 'em up, and we will keep knocking 'em the fuck down. We're not stopping until each and every person in this room, everyone watching on television, and everyone in that damned board room realizes that the women of the WWE are here for one reason, and only one. It is not for your sexual stimulation. And it's not to sell calendars and dvds. We are here to give these fans what they want, what they bought a ticket to see – real, live wrestling."

The light on the television camera went off and Trish dropped her mic, motioning to the women behind her. Together, they walked back to the barricade and jumped over, finding a security guard to help them toward the back, through the throng of congratulatory shouting and cheers. The only thing that Trish could think, as they entered the hallway and started for the parking garage, was that there was no turning back. She had fired the first shots. Now she just had to pray that she could stay alive to see how it all ended.


	8. How Far Is Too Far?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: Well, lookie what we have here - two chapters in one night. What can I say? I'm on a roll. I have not acquired the rights to Randy, or any of the Superstars mentioned in this chapter since the last one I posted, so don't sue my broke ass. Enjoy!_

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The cheers in the common area of the hotel suite were nearly as deafening as those on the television. Randy looked around at the faces of his friends with pride, and a bitter sense of longing. Trish was supposed to be in this room with him. They were supposed to meet up after his house show in Arizona and fly down to Cabo for three days of nothing but relaxation in the sun. He had not planned on being squished on the couch between Batista and Booker, listening to them talk about how great Trish looked doing the RKO. And he had not planned on being dressed at this moment.

Standing as the show went off the air, he quietly excused himself from the party and headed for the kitchen. When she had called to tell him that her plans had changed, again, he had been upset. Not because she had cancelled their weekend – that was nothing new anymore. What he didn't like was that, more often than not, she was breaking promises as though it were no big deal these days.

He understood that this thing with Vince was important to her. He was all for her showing her backbone and taking a stand. Hell, he was the one that had encouraged her to start all of this in the first place. He had known, that night in her hotel room, that it was probably going to be the last night they had together for awhile. He was completely fine with the idea of watching her on television, telling her how great she had been later on the phone, and then flying in to surprise her when he got an opening in his schedule.

Instead, she made huge plans, got him all excited about it, and then suggested that he just invite some friends to use the room, since she couldn't make it, and she couldn't get a refund. It wasn't the trip he had been planning, but surrounding himself with his new teammates, and trying to forget how hurt he was by her, had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Now, looking around the room, he decided that being alone was all he really wanted. He loved Batista like his own brother, and he was really starting to get along with Booker T. Sharmell was funny, especially when she drank too much are started talking about Christian and JBL with Candice. Mysterio trading barbs with Torrie made him laugh harder than most Saturday Night Live sketches. And when he just wanted to just sit in the hot tub, talk about the business, and chill, he was glad that he had invited Michelle and Paul London along.

But he knew, from the moment Trish had shown up on RAW, that all talk would turn to business. He knew these people well enough to know that they would be up half the night, discussing the pro's and con's of the decision his girlfriend and her cohorts had made. They would examine it from all angles, debate the hell out of it, and arrive at some brilliant conclusion. One that didn't mean shit to Trish, Lita, and Victoria, but one that helped them sleep at night.

He slid the huge glass patio doors to the side and slipped into the balmy, still night, his fifth beer of the evening dangling casually between his fingers. He and Booker were scheduled to defend their tag titles the following night on Smackdown, but he reasoned that he could sleep off the slight hangover during the flight from Mexico to Oklahoma. Besides, he tried to convince himself, if he didn't drink himself to sleep, he wasn't going to get any rest. He would just sit up all night, worrying about Trish.

"You're girl's really got a pair, man."

The sweet Southern voice made Randy jump as he turned with a slight blush to see Michelle standing in the glass doorway. She had her own beer in hand, and stepped on bare feet to one of the loungers at his side. He watched as her body gracefully slid into the seat and then shook his head. "Yeah," he agreed, moving to the chair beside her.

The silence that filled the space between them was ringing in his ears. It was one thing to sit with Trish, saying nothing, holding hands or finding other ways to touch. It was quite another to share the quiet evening with a woman who wasn't his girlfriend. He knew that Trish had never minded him being friends with other women. She didn't even care if he went to strip clubs or watched porn in the hotel. And he used to think it was cool that he finally found a woman who seemed to understand the whole "look, but don't touch" philosophy.

Now he was kind of wishing that he could abandon this moment with a "my girlfriend will castrate me for being alone with you" excuse. She had never made a pass at him, never given him any indication that she was even remotely attracted to him. In reality, she had been like one of the guys, talking sports, movies, cars, and business, with them on more than one occasion. And that was the problem.

She was too much like Trish, and this trip was making his thoughts veer down paths they had no business traveling. "So," he tried to think of something to say, but the alcohol, and a creeping sense of guilt, made it hard to focus. He wasn't doing anything wrong. He hadn't even touched her, except that one time when he was handing her a beer. And they had both jerked away so quickly, he wasn't even convinced they had actually made contact.

"Can I ask you a question?" Michelle turned her face to peer at him in the moonlight.

He nodded and sipped from his drink. "I think you just did."

Rolling her eyes, she brushed her hair up, and he caught a glimpse of her sweat-moistened neck. "Are you cool with this whole Commando-Trish thing?"

The question took him by surprise. He knew that a lot of people in that room behind them were probably thinking it, but he knew that none of them would have the balls to ask him. "Yeah," he lied, and then took another drink to avoid further explaining himself.

Michelle raised one of her legs toward her body and resting her hand on her knee. Her motions were so fluid, as if she were made of gliding parts, instead of jointed ones. And the best part about Michelle was that she seemed to have no idea how incredibly sexy she really was.

_Dammit, Orton, stop it!_ He scolded himself inwardly. _It's just because I haven't had sex in a month_, he reasoned. _Once you get with her again, when you hold her and kiss her and fuck her like you want to, you'll stop having all these thoughts about Michelle_. He nodded in agreement with the voice in his head and then thought about how stupid he probably looked.

"So, you're totally lying, right?" she asked, breaking the silence again.

He nearly spit out his drink. "Lying about what?" he choked, after swallowing hard, down the wrong tube. "About Trish?" Michelle nodded and he risked another look at her face. It really was flawless. Her forehead, her eyes, her nose, her lips, and her chin were all perfect. "I love her," he practically shouted, diverting his eyes again.

Michelle leaned back, her eyes wide with surprise. "Okay, then," she sighed, taking another drink. "Randy, are you okay?"

He sighed and let his chin drop to his chest. He wasn't okay. He hadn't been okay for a long time. But he wasn't sure it was okay to talk about it with some other girl. Of course, who else was going to give him some insight into Trish's mind? She certainly didn't have time to talk to him anymore. And he couldn't just ask anyone.

The proverbial angel/devil combo seemed to pop up on his shoulders, or at least, in his mind. _Ask Torrie. She's married. She understands how hard relationships are, especially when you're away from the person you love. She'd be a good person to talk to. Or Booker and Sharmell. You could talk to both of them_, the angelic side suggested.

_Or you could just pour your heart out to Michelle. Look at her, Randy. She wants to listen to you, man. She wants to hear what you have to say. And she's so damn easy on the eyes_. He tried to fight the demonic side of his mind, the one he had spent so much time listening to for so much of his life. It was the side he thought had finally disappeared when he fell in love with Trish. And it was the side that seemed to grow louder every day that he was away from her.

"I'm gonna go get another beer. You want one?" Michelle asked, standing from the seat as he shook his head. She straightened her little, terry cloth shorts as she walked by him and he could feel the angel in him beating the inside of his brain.

_You have a girlfriend. You have more than a girlfriend. You have a woman who is good for you, and who loves you, and who you know you want to spend your life with. Don't be a dumbass. Don't fuck that up._

He groaned and shifted in his seat, draining the rest of the beer in his bottle. _You don't even have to sleep with her, man. Just tell her how you're missing Trish. Be sweet. Sensitive. Chicks dig that bull shit. A little innocent flirting never hurt anyone._

_Until it goes too fuckin' far and you're wakin' up beside some chick who's name you can't remember, while her son plays with his GI Joes on your back Remember that debacle, Randall?_

Before he could argue with himself further, a frosty bottle dropped into his line of vision. Leaning his head against the lounger, he trailed his gaze up her bronzed arm, over her perky chest, and up to her smiling face. "I thought I'd bring ya one. Just in case," she smiled innocently.

Completely ignoring both of the voices in his head, he stood from the chair and took the bottle, offering her a smile full of confidence and charm. "I think I'm gonna sit in the hot tub for awhile," he informed, turning his head to study her features. "You wanna join me?"

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_A/N: Alright, so I wanted to save this until the end, so as not to give anything away before you read the chapter. But this one was for Jhanelle and Rachel, who were both kinda wondering what Randy was thinking while Trish was having her big moment. I hope you guys liked it, but I'm totally expecting to be berated in your next reviews. It's okay - I'm used to both of you being pissed at me by now. Oh, and Kiera? There's a chapter coming just for you, but I don't wanna give anything away, so just be assured that you'll know it when you read it!_


	9. What Are You Gonna Do Now, Vince?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: Wow, so I got a lot of reviews for the last two chapters, and that totally reaks of awesomeness! Thanks so much. I know you probably get tired of hearing that at the beginning of every story you read, but it really does mean a lot to me. I love knowing that you're connecting to the movement - joining the revolution, so to speak. Anyway, I wrote a different chapter last night, but decided to save it for later in story. Instead, this is what you get. I hope you like it, as always. And I don't own shit - if I did, you would be seeing this storyline on television, instead of insane "face growth" gimmicks. What the fuck? Anyway, I won't get off on that tangent right now. Enjoy!

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"Are you sure it's cool?" Trish asked, holding her cell phone to her ear as she watched a bug crawl across the floor of the locker room. Behind her, she could hear Victoria and Lita whispering about something.

He spoke incredulously, as though he was shocked that she would even ask. "Trish, I told you I would do anything you needed me to do."

She smiled at the gruff sound of the Undertaker's voice. The first time they had spoken, it had freaked her out. The next couple of calls had helped ease her into a mentor/pupil relationship with the veteran, resulting in sage wisdom and great advice. He couldn't be there to train her physically, but he was more than willing to answer all of her questions, and teach her everything he could about intimidation. 'Psyche 'em out before you ever show up.' That was his philosophy, and she was trying to follow suit.

"I know it seems like a little thing to you, but it means the world to us," she told him, hoping that she didn't come off as a soft little girl. The last thing she wanted was for her hero to think that she was weak.

"What do I always tell you?"

"You don't take out the competition. You take out the assholes who think they're competition," Trish repeated the words he had shared so many times.

Taker's soft chuckle of amusement filled the space between them. "Alright, then," he seemed to concede, as though he couldn't see why she stood in such awe of him. "I think it sounds great, and I'd be more than happy to be a part of this whole thing."

The weight of his words washed over her as she turned and gave a thumbs up to her anxious friends. The three did an abbreviated version of the 'happy dance' before Victoria and Lita dropped to the couch and Trish turned her attention back to the critter on the floor. "Thanks, man," she said, trying to reassemble her cool demeanor.

He mumbled something, and Trish wasn't sure if it was aimed at her or not. "Sorry," he cleared his throat after a second. "I gotta get goin', but I'll be watchin' you, Kid," he reminded.

She swallowed the nerves that his statement evoked. It was bad enough that her friends, and her boyfriend, were watching her. But the idea of Taker examining her ring antics, and weighing in with his expert opinions, made her want to throw up. "I'll try to do you proud, then," she smiled slightly, turning back around to face her friends.

"You always do," he encouraged before ending the call.

"So it's cool?" Victoria asked, standing and turning her attention to the television screen in their locker room when Trish nodded. "This is gonna be so much fun."

XXX

"As you all know, a WWE diva will be asked to show her skills in the ring from time to time," Coach was saying to the newest crop of diva search girls. The final three of them watched him with expectant eyes, waiting for instructions on their next challenge. "So tonight, you are going to show this audience, and the millions of people watching at home, just how well you move in the ring."

Before he could speak again, an innocent giggle flowed through the speakers of the arena. The crowd, who moments ago were chanting 'Bor-ing' in a loud monotone, broke into hysterical cheers. But instead of Trish's music, a heavy drum beat and a gong followed. If the crowd had been crazy before, they lost their minds when the opening strains of Taker's old "You're Gonna Pay" started.

_You've done it now. You've gone and made a big mistake._

Trish, Victoria, and Lita moved through the curtain, stopped at the top of the ramp, and listened to the reaction during the first section of the song. They all fought the smiles that were dangerously close to cracking their lips. This was not about happily acknowledging the fans, though they appreciated the support more than any of them would ever know. It was about taking the next step.

_A cheap shot. That's the way that you play the game._

_I was blindsided but things will never, ever be the same._

All signs of the old divas, in their brightly colored spandex and perfectly coiffed hair, were gone. The determined looks of intensity on their faces said they meant business, and no one doubted it, as they allowed the words of the song to sink into the atmosphere.

"I'm sorry," Trish stated as the girls in the ring turned to stare at her while the music faded. Most of them looked confused, a couple angry that she had stolen their spotlight. "Did you just say that you were gonna give these girls a chance to show how their moves in the ring?" Coach nodded and said something that Trish didn't quite catch, or care about. "Oh, well, Coach, I think we can help you with that."

The Women's Champion and her fellow revolutionaries moved toward the ring, as though they were smelling the fear on the new recruits. Victoria snarled like a muzzled dog, and Lita smiled a cool, sadistic grin. Trish was still holding the mic when they approached the ring and Coach held his hand up.

"Now just a minute, Stratus," he started as all three women jumped onto the apron in perfect sync. "This has nothing to do with you. This is the Diva Search," he reminded.

Ducking under the top rope, Trish stood just a few feet away from Coach. He could straighten up and pretend that he wasn't intimidated, but Trish knew the truth. She could see it in his eyes. He knew what she was capable of. He had seen what she had done to Carlito a week earlier. And he was afraid.

"You're right, Coach," Trish nodded, pushing him out of the way. Victoria grabbed him by the back of the neck and threw him out of the ring. The proverbial line in the sand had been drawn – three wannabe divas on one side, and three established wrestlers on the other. "He's right," she pointed with her thumb to where Coach gripped his knee on the floor. "This doesn't have anything to do with me. With us.

"Because this is not what we are about," she tapped one of the girls, a plastic-looking brunette with too much collagen in her lips, on the shoulder. "You wanna be a diva in this business, ladies? You better start learning how to fight."

Without warning, Lita and Victoria lunged for the girls on the outside, knocking them to the ground and directing their punches straight to the heavily-made-up faces of the contestants. Trish, however, waited. Giving her adversary a smirk, she raised the microphone to her lips. "You want to show your moves in the ring?" She held her arms out at her sides. "I'm right here, baby. You wanna prove yourself? I'm givin' you the first shot." She tapped her own cheek with her finger and waited.

The girl across from her sneered, her dark hair swishing as she shook her head. "I don't have to prove anything to you," she insisted.

Trish turned her face to the television camera behind her and raised an eyebrow, returning her attention to the girl. "I gave you a freebie," she warned, drawing back her arm and sinking a fist into the model's nose. Blood started flowing before her little body fell to the mat.

Pulling Victoria and Lita off their bruised "opponents," Trish turned back to the camera, a satisfied grin on her flawless face. "Oops. Vince, it looks like the Diva Search is over." She motioned over her shoulder and the camera man panned over to the carnage in the ring. None of the girls moved, only laid on the mat, groaning.

She turned and slid out of the ring, backing up the ramp, only to stop in front of another camera. Pointing to Victoria and Lita, she spread her arms and winked. "Looks like we're all you got now, Vince."


	10. Is Winning Even A Possibility?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: Alright, so I was going to put a Randy/Trish chapter in here, but I decided to hold off a little bit longer. What can I say? I'm a bitch! Anyway, here's the next chapter, and I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for all of your support - and if you come across anyone from the WWE, make sure they know I'm not claiming any of their characters as my own! Oh, and Kiera, I know I promised you this chapter was for you, but I threw this one in as a transition. The next one is for you! Maybe I'll write it tonight before I go to bed. Enjoy!

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At first, Trish had truly believed that Vince's lack of reaction to all of her latest antics was a good thing. She thought that she had caught him off guard, and that he didn't know how to counter. How could he be upset with her? She had seen the RAW numbers – the ratings, and the average cost of advertising spots on the two hour program were both up considerably. There had been actual AP write-ups on their actions in newspapers across the country. It seemed that Trish's little movement had set the wrestling world on fire, and she really didn't care if Vince took credit for that or not.

She didn't care who got the glory for her actions, because none of it had been about glory for Trish. It had been, and was still, about letting the world know that women were not inferior in the wrestling ring. Sure, they were different. She was the first to admit that none of them would ever be three-hundred-pound pieces of mindless meat, who could bench press a small vehicle. But they could be smart, quick, and exciting to watch – even fully clothed.

Unfortunately, she had been wrong, at least about the boss. Vince wasn't ignoring her – he, and the Board, were paying close attention to everything that the little fire-starter, and her band of merry miscreants, were doing on the show. And he wasn't happy. Oh, he was ecstatic about the ratings and the advertisers, and the publicity. But he was not about to admit, even in the privacy of the board room, that Trish Stratus was anything more than a punk-ass has-been, with more talent for talking trash than backing it up.

The more steam the movement picked up, the more pissed Vince was becoming. She had been fined $25,000 when one of Victoria's friend in LA opened a website for the girls. TakeBackTheRing dot com was the official site for all things Trish, Victoria, and Lita. A petition to support the movement had garnered more than 100,000 signatures during its first week, and showed no signs of stopping. It was also the only place to buy the tee shirts the girls were now wearing on a weekly basis.

WWE couldn't sanction any apparel with the word "penis" on it, but a private distributor could. He could also sell the new design Randy had commissioned: a black tank top with red letters that said "Sorry to leave you hanging, Vince" on the front. The back read "But I couldn't wrestle with your cock in my mouth." According to Dante, the web master, it was nearly impossible to keep up with the demand for both designs, and the fans were now submitting their suggestions for new slogans.

She had wanted to make some waves, and Trish thought she was succeeding. Unfortunately, the movement was new, and it still needed time to grow into a revolution. She knew that they could only go forward as long as they had a platform to fight, and without Vince, their stage was gone. If he got angry enough to fire the three of them, she knew they couldn't pick up the party anywhere else. Sure, plenty of indie promoters were offering big things now. But by the time their no-compete clauses were up, she doubted anyone would be interested in 'those three girls who tried to take on Vince McMahon that one time.'

Deciding to suck up her pride, she had scheduled a meeting with Vince and Eric, dressed in her best business suit, and approached the offices of Titan Towers with as much confidence as she could muster. And for thirty-five minutes, she tried to sell the men on thedrawing power of a Triple-Threat match for the Women's Championship at the Royal Rumble, now only three weeks away. Vince had, at least, seemed impressed with her thorough ratings and profits research, though he made her no promises.

Bischoff said that he would let her know before Monday night's taping, in three days, whether or not she would get her match. But Trish knew, before she even made it to her car, that she would spending yet another Rumble PPV behind the scenes. Their faces said they had no interest in helping her do anything, and that if she thought dressing up and smiling like a choir girl was going to fool them, she wasn't nearly prepared to take on either of them, let alone both of them.

Upon returning home from her meeting, Trish went directly to the refrigerator and helped herself to an ice cold bottle of beer. Corona. The kind she and Randy had shared on a beach in Maui just before he went to Smackdown. A fleeting smile passed her lips as she closed the refrigerator and looked at the plethora of photos held in place by various magnets from all over the country.

Her Randy was so pretty. There were nights she regretted, missed opportunites to be with him, or to listen to his voice on the phone. Voice mails wishing her sweet dreams weren't the same as hearing it live. She had been sure that Christmas would give them some much-needed time together, but it hadn't worked out. Scheduled appearances, and family obligations left them only a day to be together. And it had been a disaster.

She knew that she still loved him, and that he was the one she wanted to share her life with forever. But she also knew that something had changed, shifted, over the course of their time apart. Their comfortable silences had turned awkward, and his touch felt forced, obligatory rather than affectionate. Even the sex, which had never been anything short of magical, was mediocre that night.

She knew she couldn't fault him, though. He hadn't been the one to back out of their plans time and time again. On the contrary, he had been the one to cancel two phone interviews and a family dinner, just to fly to Toronto to see her for eighteen hours.Sure,he was sometimes too busy for her, as well. But every time she needed something - from a new tee shirt slogan, to a pick-me-up 'I love you' before a sabotage mission in the ring, he was right there to follow through. Trish had started to think, when she actually made time to think about him, that he was too good for her. She didn't deserve Randy Orton. She could only pray that he didn't realize that before she had a chance to rectify the situation.

Sinking onto her couch, she made a mental note to buy him something big and expensive as soon as this thing with Vince was over, and then shechecked her cell phone for messages. Three had been left while she was in her meeting. Propping her tired feet on the ottoman before her, she entered her password and leaned her head against the soft, brown leather of the sofa. "You have three messages," the robotic voice told her.

"Trish, it's V. Call me. I wanna know how it went today." Victoria had never been one for small talk, in all the time Trish had known her, and at that moment, she was thankful. She wasn't in the mood to talk.

"Trisha, it's me. Hey, Taker invited me and some of the other guys to his place in Houston for the weekend. We're gonna try to get some intense training and stuff in before the Rumble. So, um, I just wanted to let you know that I'm not gonna be able to make it to Atlanta to see you on Friday. It sucks, I know, but we'll definitely see each other in three weeks, right? Um, anyway, I'll call you later and we can talk about what hotel you want to stay at in Boston. Miss you. Bye." Randy's voice brought tears to her eyes, but she pushed them down before they took over. She wasn't in the mood to be hurt by, or to be missing, Randy Orton at the moment.

"Hey, it's me. I just got a weird-ass call from Bischoff. I don't know what the fuck you said in that meeting, Trish, but you musta pissed them off bad. Now you gotta fight me Monday night. At least you know how to counter everything I can throw your way, right? Alright, call me back when you get this. We'll talk strategy."

Before she could stop herself, Trish stood from the couch, ran to the bathroom, and vomited. Victoria's message had proven that she, and Lita, were counting on Trish to be their leader, to get things done, and to make sure that they won this fight. And, for the first time, since everything had started, she wasn't sure shewas the right woman for the job. She wasn't sure that every part of her plan had been perfect. She wasn't sure that Victoria wouldn't be a better leader.

On top of that, Randy's message had shown her that their relationship was now officially on the back burner – in both of their eyes. He had called her Trisha - a term of endearment in his eyes, but a far cry from the 'baby' or 'sexy' or 'beautiful' that he usually used as his greeting. And then he had backed out on her, like it was no big deal, as though they hadn't been planning on spending forty-eight hours together in Atlanta for the last three weeks. She was disappointed, and then guilty, when she realized that it was probably exactly what he was feeling every time she did the same thing to him. He hadn't even ended the call with the customary "I love you."

The final message had said that Vince was finally ready to go to war. He wasn't going to mess around by giving the crowd the same women's matches they had been watching for nearly a year. He was going to make them earn the respect they wanted, or die trying. And in three nights, in front of a live audience, he was going to make Trish go face to face with the man who had taught her everything she had learned in the last two months. The crowd would love it, but he wouldn't go easy on her. Millions of RAW fans didn't know it, but they were about to get one hell of a match.

Trish thought about the possibilities. And she threw up again.


	11. Can Trish Run with the Big Boys?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: Alright, Kiera, this chapter is for you. To the rest of you who have been so good to read and review, or just to read, thanks a bunch. Also, to my girlie, Olivia Dawn - Happy Birthday! I don't own them, and you know it, so just move on to reading the story - Enjoy!

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"Why are you pacing?"

His question stopped Trish in her tracks. Turning on her toe, she looked straight into the face of the man who had logged so many hours in the ring with her over the last few months. "Are you kidding?" she asked incredulously.

He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "Pacing wastes your energy, Trish. And worrying fogs your mind," he reminded.

A part of her wanted to give him a Chick Kick, just for the hell of it. Sure, he had been a great coach over the last couple of months. But tonight, he was her competitor. She wasn't even sure he should be in the same room with her, let alone giving her tips on her game. "Shouldn't you be somewhere else?" she asked hotly.

Standing from her couch, he conceded with a nod. "I was just getting ready to leave. Listen, this is it, okay?" She turned her head, a slight expression of confusion on her face. "After tonight, I'm not training you anymore."

"What?"

"You don't need me, Trish," he admitted. "You haven't for, like, the last six weeks. You know what you're doing and you're good at it," he assured her, moving toward the door. "Trust your instincts, and watch your back."

When he reached for the door handle, she felt her stomach jump. "What do you mean? Watch my back? You think someone else is gonna try to interfere?" Try as she might, she couldn't figure out who would do that. Carlito was out with a broken leg, thanks to her. Lita had delivered a perfect Twist of Fate on Snitsky two weeks prior, leaving him with a tweaked disc in his neck. And, thanks to a botched Widow's Peak, the Masterpiece had a dislocated shoulder.

With a shake of his head, her opponent opened the door. "No," he told her, raising an eyebrow and then shooting her a wink. "But don't think I'm not gonna kick your ass."

She flipped him off, but felt like all of the air had left her lungs as soon as the door closed behind him. He was right – he was going to kick her ass. He might have been in total support of everything she was trying to accomplish, but it didn't mean that he was going to lie down and let her have the match, either.

In all honesty, she didn't want him to give in to her. She wanted to prove that she was strong enough to hang with the big boys – that she deserved an opportunity to wrestle like one of them. And the only way she was going to get that was to earn it from someone the fans loved and respected as much as him.

She let out one more heavy sigh and then moved to the hallway. Her match was up first, and she was glad. Stretching her arms above her head and behind her back as she walked down the hall, Trish pulled into her shell and tried to focus. She could do this. She could beat him. She could prove to Bischoff and Vince that she deserved this opportunity, and that they were the only ones who couldn't see it.

She reached the ring, accompanied by a thunderous ovation, and stood in the corner to wait for his entrance. Trying to shut them out, Trish reminded herself that the biggest obstacle to winning this match would be the fans. Sure, they were screaming now, and holding posters for her and wearing her shirts, but they were fickle. They loved her, but they adored him. And if she listened to what they had to say, she would lose the mental advantage immediately.

_I'm back, and better than ever._

Bischoff's music played to loud 'boos' and Trish masked her shock perfectly. This couldn't be good – at least, not for her.

With a cocky grin that she desperately wanted to smack off of his face, the general manager raised his microphone to his lips. It was the first time, as far as she could recall, that he had even acknowledged her since she had introduced the world to the new Trish. At least, publicly, it was the first time. Mostly, he and Vince had tried to downplay her tirades, and pretend as though they hadn't even existed.

"Miss Stratus," Bischoff started, the words dripping off of his lips. The only other time he had spoken to her in that tone was when she had won the World Heavyweight Championship at SummerSlam. He had come to the ring, following her victory, to "congratulate" her, only to immediately thrust her into her first title defense.

"What the fuck do you want?" she shouted angrily.

"Now, settle down there, Princess," he sneered, knowing that her blood was boiling, even if her face was showing nothing but determined focus. "Vince and I were talking this afternoon, about your latest proposition." He let the words dangle in the air, an innuendo thick in his tone. "You want a match at the Royal Rumble. Is that right?"

Trish nodded, her heart pounding in her chest as she leaned her back against the far ropes and crossed her arms over her chest, as if telling him to get to the point. "So?" she asked.

"So, we think you may be right. Maybe these people would like to see Trish Stratus in a match at the Royal Rumble. What do you think?" The crowd went nuts, breaking into chants of 'We Want Trish.' Bischoff nodded his graying head. "Alright, then, Trish – here's the deal. Your match tonight is now officially a Royal Rumble Qualifying match. If you can win, you will earn one of the coveted spots in the Rumble. What do you think about that?"

She thought it was bull shit, and he knew it. But it was better than nothing. Maybe she would sail over the top rope the second she set foot on the canvas, but it was a match. Nodding, Trish took the microphone from Lillian. "Deal." Handing it back, she pushed off the ropes and waited as the weasely GM disappeared behind the curtain.

When the next music hit, Trish's suspicions had been confirmed. The crowd went beyond crazy, into hysterically insane. She heard the simultaneous "whoosh" of fifteen thousand seats snapping up as the sold-out crowd hit their feet and began chanting for him. Squeezing her eyes tightly, she looked at the mat and thought about the ramifications of the match. Royal Rumble. She could be the second woman in history to be a part of the Royal Rumble. It would further her cause, and it would be another accomplishment to her legacy. She had to focus on that, and not the words Lillian was trying to shout over the roar of the crowd.

"And making his way to the ring, from Battle Creek, Michigan." She paused as he approached the apron. "ROB VAN DAM."

Once the bell sounded, Trish stopped worrying about Pay-Per-Views, crowds, Vince, Randy, and everything else that had clouded her mind over the last few months. When they locked, collar and elbow, in the middle of the ring, she slipped into "match" mode.

He turned from the lock up and pushed her toward the corner. Her new weight training had prepared her for an upper body war, but he was stronger, and she knew it. The ref called for a break, and Van Dam gave it, stepping back cleanly, only to whip around and kick her in the gut.

Trish sank to the mat, her wind escaping her body. He gave her no time to recover, though, as he grabbed her hair and dragged her to the middle of the ring. Barely able to hold herself up, she didn't notice when he charged off the ropes and caught her with a monster clothesline. She noticed the lights when she was laid out flat on her back, though.

If she didn't counter with something, it was going to be a short match. And she couldn't afford a short match, or a loss. Wiggling her fingers for some feeling, she took a deep breath and nipped up, turning to find his boot in her throat. She flew backward and hit her head on the mat. For a second, her mind went blank, and she forced herself to blink, just to remember where she was.

If Van Dam had grown cocky, Trish couldn't tell. He didn't let up on her at all, and she took it as a compliment. The only way she had beaten Triple H, she knew, was by taking advantage of his arrogance, and his disbelief that little Trish could beat him. Van Dam wasn't underestimating her. He was beating her.

When she finally pulled herself up by the ropes, she turned to see him charging at her again. Ducking at her waist, she grabbed his thighs and launched him over the top rope, to the concrete floor below. The velocity caused her to lose her balance, and she hit her knees, gasping for breath. Was this what it was like to run with the big boys? Would it take this much out of her every time? Was it worth it?

As Rob rolled himself back into the ring, Trish held onto the ropes and stood above him, stomping on his recently-injured knee. As his face twisted in agony, she smiled to herself. It was worth it, alright. The rush of adrenaline, the sound of her name on the lips of hundreds of fans, the sound of his name on others, and the satisfaction of knowing that she was in control, all told her that it was worth every damn minute.

Grabbing his ponytail, she pulled him to a standing position in the corner and climbed to the second rope. Drawing back her fist, she hit him in the forehead twice, with all of her strength. The reddening mark on his skin told her that the hellacious weight training he had put her through was worth it, too.

As if on instinct, Van Dam started for the second rope. Trish could tell, by the glassy look in his eye, that he was just doing what felt natural. He was a high-flyer, and he was going to the part of the ring that felt the most comfortable for him – the top. With his feet on either side of the turnbuckle, she made her way to the top rope and slung his arm over her shoulder. It wouldn't be the prettiest one they had ever seen, but with her arms snuggly around his waist, she launched both of them into a belly-to-belly Superplex, smacking the mat with a painful 'splat.'

Both participants gripped the backs of their heads, and Trish felt a thousand convulsions running up and down her neck. It hadn't been that long ago, she remembered in an instant, that she had been out with her own surgery. Rolling to her stomach, she opened her eyes to see Van Dam, gripping his knee and writhing in pain. 'Never give them what they expect.' That's what he had always told her – never give the crowd what they think you're going to give them. And never give an opponent the move they're expecting. Never give them a chance to counter.

Standing on legs that felt like lead, Trish watched Van Dam struggle to his feet. It wasn't her plan to end with a Chick Kick, but she had intended to use the maneuver as an equalizer. Unfortunately, he was ready for it, and he grabbed her leg in the air, jumping over it and then spinning back with a right leg of his own. He caught Trish in the jaw and sent her crashing to the mat.

She lay on the canvas, the impact echoing in her mind. As she heard the crowd clapping, and stomping their feet, she knew what was coming. He was climbing the ropes. He was setting up for the Five Star Frog Splash. He was going to crush her for the victory. And she couldn't stop it.

It felt as though someone was sitting on her chest. Each time she tried to sit up, she had the eery feeling that someone was holding her back down. _There are a million little girls watching you right now, Trish. They're cheering for you. They need you to win this match. They need you to get into that Rumble. There are a million woman out there that need you to get off your ass._

Accidentally, Trish countered the Five Star. In an attempt to nip up once again, she raised her legs and caught Van Dam in the chin. She rolled to her knees, only to see him gripping his stomach and flopping around like a fish. Pulling herself up on the ropes again, she stood in the corner and tried to catch her breath.

What could she do that they wouldn't expect? And what the hell did she have in her arsenal that he wouldn't expect? Nobody on the roster knew her better than he did. And then it hit her.

First, she executed the Chick Kick to the back of his head, knocking him flat on his face. Standing over him, she grabbed his ankles and stepped between his knees, tangling his legs around hers and sitting on the mat. With every muscle in her body straining against the resistance, she reached her arms back on the mat and held her torso as straight as possible, maintaining her leverage when he screamed out in agony at her perfectly-applied Figure Four Leg Lock.

In the middle of the ring, Trish watched as Van Dam reached his arm toward the ropes. They were nowhere close to his grasp. He tried to reverse the maneuver, but she was determined not to budge. After what felt like an eternity, he managed to lift one of her ass cheeks off the mat, but Trish mustered all of the power left in her thighs and cranked herself back down. And he tapped.

The disbelief in the crowd was nothing compared to the disbelief filling Trish's chest. Standing, Lillian took her arm and raised it above her head. "And your winner, by submission: Trish Stratus."

Her music began to play, but Trish wasn't paying attention. She had a Royal Rumble spot, thanks to the man on the mat before her. Reaching down, she extended a hand and helped him to his feet. The crowd ate it up as Rob pulled her into a hug and patted her back. "You beat me," he said, his voice a little surprised.

Trish nodded, and when he pulled back to look at her, she winked. "I know."

One small step for Trish. One giant leap for Womankind. A leap that exhausted her, and drained her energy, she realized as she waved to the crowd and headed up the ramp. Now all she had to do was prepare for this, times twenty-nine, and she could win the Rumble. No problem.


	12. Can You Just Be Honest?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: So, here's my next chapter. I like to think that you guys enjoy my stories because there's some degree of realism to every chapter. I like to think that you, maybe, connect with the emotions that my characters think and feel. Well, the sad truth, kids, is that sometimes people hurt, and disappoint, the people they love. That's real. So I just want you to keep that in mind while you're reading the chapter so many of you have been begging for: Did Randy and Michelle get it on in Cabo? Read on and find out - and leave me a review, if you feel like it. I love to know what you're thinking. . .

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She watched the muscles in his back flex with each animated gesture as he told his friends what was, apparently, an extremely funny story. For a moment, she wondered if she should just march up to the table and make her presence known. But seeing as things had been rocky, since the Cabo incident, she wasn't sure it was a good idea. Sure, he would put on the smile and make small talk, if she caught him before a match at the arena, or in the hotel afterward. But conversation had gone from stimulating, to downright awkward, in only a matter of a few weeks.

She had known, since the moment she made the decision, that things would change between them. He had promised her that it would be fine, that he wanted it as much as she did, but she had known that he would resent it, eventually. Left alone to think about it, to reflect on it, he would resent her for going through with it.

"I can't do it," she cringed, wavering in the doorway of the Boston bar, where Randy was sitting with Batista, Big Show, Cena, Booker T, Taker, and Shelton Benjamin. With RAW and Smackdown in the same city for the Rumble, old friends were taking advantage of the time to catch up and get reacquainted.

Victoria clapped her hand over Trish's left shoulder and held her friend from turning back. "Awe, hell no!" She shook her dark head. "I have listened to you bitch and moan about how shitty things have gotten between you guys for a month. We are not leaving until you talk to him, at least."

Lita nodded in agreement, grasping Trish's left arm for extra security. "It's bad enough that Edge won't talk to me – one of us is gonna get laid before we leave this town."

They were right. She felt slightly guilty that Edge and Lita's relationship couldn't handle the stress of their crusade, but she didn't have to let the same thing happen with Randy. She could make things better. Or infinitely worse. She wasn't sure which, and she prayed, as she moved toward his table, that he wouldn't make a scene or tell her that he was sick of her bull shit. She prayed that he would wait, at least, until they were outside and away from their friends.

Her stomach was doing cartwheels, the way it used to every time he walked into a room. No matter how long she had gone without seeing him, and no matter how weird their relationship had gotten, the deep timber of his voice still caused a flutter in the lowest part of her belly. He still had a way of turning her insides to liquid, even when he didn't know she was there to be liquefied.

She held up a finger to silence his shocked, and amused, friends as she approached and slid her long fingers over his eyes. Leaning over, she rested the full weight of her breasts against his shoulder, and felt his back stiffen. His breath hitched when she moved her mouth so close to his ear, that her lips brushed his skin when she spoke.

"Hey, Stranger," she whispered in a husky tone that caused him to groan, while the rest of the table broke into cheers. "Miss me?"

When she grasped his earlobe between her teeth, his heart felt like it dropped to his toes. His blood didn't quite make it that far. He stood quickly and grabbed her, kissing her before his mind told him that they weren't the old Trish and Randy. There were catcalls and whistles, but he didn't care. Her response was a desperate, urgent tongue in his mouth, which he sucked on hungrily.

"Jesus," a deep voice interrupted their clawing and groping. "Don't you guys have a room or something?"

Randy pulled back, his hands still on Trish's waist, as he glared at Hunter, but Trish held a hand to Randy's chest, while shaking her head at her old friend. "Isn't there some bar fly you can go hit on or something? I got some lost time to make up for here," she reminded him, turning back to give Randy the best pair of bedroom eyes she could muster.

Pulling her into a crushing hug, he whispered into her ear, "Dammit, I wanna fuck you so bad," His eyes drifted down her neck to the little top she was wearing. Its plunging neckline gave him a bird's eye view of everything he couldn't wait to get his hands on.

Her infamous giggle escaped and she kissed him again, only to pull back and withdrew a room key from her pocket. "The hotel's, like, five minutes away. Think you can wait that long?"

He sighed and ran a hand over his hair, one still firmly planted on her shoulder. He knew she was there for two days, and that they would see each other a lot, but he wasn't going to stop touching her, if he could help it. "I don't have a car. I rode with Batista and Cena."

Trish bit her lip and squinted as she thought. "We brought Lita's car," she stated. How the hell had she been so careless? She could plot and plan against Vince to the last possible detail, but now that she needed an escape from a fuckin' bar, she had no vehicle? And why were none of their friends offering up a set of keys. Didn't these people know how long it had been since she'd had a good ride on the Orton Express? "Taxi?"

"You can take my car," a voice offered from behind them.

Trish turned her head and saw three women heading for the back table. Torrie Wilson and a couple of last year's diva search chicks were moving toward them. The tallest, a lean, bronzed blonde, had a set of keys in her hand.

"You sure?" Randy asked, raising an eyebrow as Michelle thrust her keys toward him for a second time.

"Take it," she insisted. Smiling at Trish, she said, "Consider it my contribution to the revolution," she winked.

Trish shot a sarcastic smile back and nodded. "If I didn't have other things on my mind," she cast a look at Randy and stepped closer to him, feeling his hand on her hip, "I would tell you where to stick that contribution."

Michelle looked surprised, and Randy steeled himself for what was about to come. Trish didn't like anyone from the diva search, and she wasn't afraid to tell them that. "Um, I'm trying to make a friendly gesture here," the younger woman defended, looking to Randy for support.

But he just pulled his girlfriend closer to his side. There was no way – not a snowball's chance in hell – that he was going to defend Michelle to Trish. Not when she was so close to him, so ready to let him do whatever he wanted to her. And certainly not when they seemed to be getting along so well, for a change. He averted his gaze, trying not to acknowledge the pain that his new friend wasn't even trying to mask. He tried to tell himself that it was Trish's words, and not his reaction, that had caused that look in her eye.

Trish snatched the keys and put a hand on her hip. "Maybe you wouldn't be so quick to support our cause, if you really understood it, Sweetheart," she smiled and raked her fingernails down Randy's chest, watching the jealousy fire up in the other woman's eyes. "Because if we had launched this whole thing a year ago, you wouldn't have a job."

The look in Michelle's eyes turned to one of angry defiance, but Randy spoke before she could say anything damaging. "Alright, ladies," he spoke, before Michelle had a chance to. "Thanks for the car, Michelle. I will fill up the tank tomorrow. Now if you'll excuse us, we've got a lot of time to make up."

During the entire ride to the hotel, Trish ranted. She went on and on about her "revolution" and about how girls like Michelle had ruined her career. She had even gone so far as to spit on the leather interior of the car that, she claimed, her sacrifices had paid for. By the time he cut the engine in the parking garage, though, she had seemed to cool down a little bit.

Randy unlocked the door to their suite and pushed it open with his shoulder, trying to clear his head of all the muddled confusion her presence seemed to bring as of late. This was the woman he loved, and he had her in a hotel room – alone. Their friends all knew better than to bother them, and he was going to finally have a chance to make up for the cancelled weekends, and the missed phone calls.

With one arm around her thin waist, he hoisted Trish into his arms and felt her lock her ankles around his back. The kiss was heated, tongues battling for position, as he stumbled through the foyer and the living room, finally dropping onto the bed. Trish moved to her knees, straddling his lap, and ran her fingernails up and down his neck.

His large hands kneaded the exposed skin of her lower back and moved to her denim-covered ass, eliciting a deep moan from her chest. He knew that she could feel his instant reaction to her grinding, as they fell back onto the bed and Trish moved her kisses to his neck. Was it tacky to appear on television with a hickey? Because the force with which she was sucking on his skin was sure to leave a friendly reminder of this night for the world to see.

"So," she breathed, as she continued to kiss, lick, and nibble on his ears, chin, and jaw, "I thought . . . that we could . . . come up . . . with a plan. . . for the Rumble. . . And then. . . we could. . . talk about. . ."

Everything he had been feeling seemed to be flushed by her words. Removing his hands from her belt, he rolled his shoulder slightly, as if fighting out of a pinning predicament. "You're kidding?" he asked with a slight laugh.

Trish moved to his side and crossed her legs, a look of surprise on her face. "What?"

"You wanna talk about that now?" he clarified, more hurt than angry when he realized she didn't see his point. "Trish, we've been apart for months. That was the only thing remotely resembling foreplay that we've had since November." His breathing was still erratic as he fought to say the words.

Shaking her head, she shrugged her shoulders. "I just thought we could talk about some business first, and then, when it was all out of the way, we would be free to," she started to explain, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"No," Randy pushed himself off the bed and stood with his hands on his hips. "No 'business first,' Trish," he stated firmly. Her expression was still blank. Throwing up his arms, he sighed. "Don't you think that's maybe our problem? Lately, it's been nothing but 'business first.' That's why we're in this whole situation in the first place."

How had they gone from near-orgasm to a near-fight in less than a minute? Trish didn't know, but she was afraid she was about to find out. "What mess?" she asked, baiting him.

Randy's eyes flashed with anger. "Don't pull that bull shit with me, Trish. Don't act like we can just ignore it and make it go away."

Pouting, she pulled herself up on her knees and then leaned over on the bed, crawling toward him with a cat-like grace. "Come on, Randy. We only get a couple of nights together," she purred.

If she asked him to forget it one more time, Randy knew that he would. She was edible, in the middle of that huge mattress with those eyes that just begged to be fucked upside down and inside out. He wasn't the guy to share his feelings, normally, but the situation with Trish had grown significantly worse since his weekend in Cabo, and he was tired of it. He was tired of having a girlfriend in name only. And he wasn't leaving Boston with everything up in the air.

"Fine," Trish finally snapped, standing and holding her arms out. "You wanna talk – let's talk. Let's talk about how the one thing that is most important in my life right now drives you crazy. How about that? How about we talk about how jealous you are that I'm getting all of this attention lately? Or, maybe we could just talk about your new girlfriend for awhile. How's that sound?" Trish watched the anger on his face, but she couldn't stop herself. She had seen the way Michelle looked at him, and the helpless eyes he had given her in return. "Oh, did I strike a nerve?"

Randy's shoulders stiffened. "What the fuck are you even talking about?" he asked, exasperation in his tone, unsure of which accusation to field first. "My new girlfriend?" Shaking his head, he rolled his eyes. "Michelle's my friend, yeah. But you know there's nothing else going on there."

She didn't know. And the look in his eyes said that he was lying through his perfect teeth. "Bull shit," she called him on it. "I saw you guys looking at each other tonight. I know that look she was giving you, the look like she would do anything you asked her to do, just because you asked her to do it." She watched his eyes and shook her head. "Don't tell me that girl is not ass backwards in love with you. I know those looks she was giving you."

"Because they're the ones you used to give me?" he challenged before he could stop himself. She looked slightly taken aback, but Randy didn't care. The cork was off the bottle now, and all the built up pressure had to go somewhere. "Do you really have to ask why I would like having her around, Trish? Why I would like having someone around who actually thinks I'm worth her time?"

His words stung, but the new Trish wasn't about to tear up. She was a fighter now, and she would go down swinging, even if she took him with her. "You knew that, when I decided to this, it was going to take a lot of my time. You said that you understood that, and that you supported me. You said that you just wanted me to have the fire," she accused, a finger pointing in his general direction, though they stood on opposite sides of the bed.

"You can't possibly think that I don't support you!" He was getting angry, and containing it was no longer an option. He didn't care what he said in that room at that moment. He had been hurt, and he didn't like showing that kind of vulnerability. "Everything you have asked of me, Trish, I have done for you. Every time you have called and asked me to do something for your stupid cause, I have done it."

"Stupid?" Trish's voice rose about three octaves. "Now you think it's stupid?" He seemed to retract slightly, but Trish was not about to let him out so easily. "No, come on, Randy. I mean, obviously you have no problem sneaking around with the enemy behind my back. Why don't you just tell me how you really feel?"

"First of all," he raised a finger, defiance pushing past all of the hurt, "I am not sneaking around with anyone. Second of all, do not ever – EVER – accuse me of not supporting you. You wanna know the truth?" She nodded her head. "Professionally? I could care less what happens to the Women's division. It doesn't have anything to do with me, Trish. My career is fine, with or without that particular piece of the puzzle." He watched the fury raising in her eyes. "But if you think, for a second, that I don't care about what you're doing, you're dead wrong.

"I don't give a fuck about your cause, Trish, but I love you. It doesn't matter to me if your passionate about beating Vince, or stopping world hunger, or killing fucking baby animals. It doesn't matter what the cause your fighting for, Trish. I'm right here behind you, because you matter to me." He stopped and sighed heavily. "I just wish that you felt the same way."

It took a moment for his words to sink in, to let them wash over her, after his drastic change in tone. Triple H had said the same thing to her – it wasn't his fight, and he didn't care what happened in the end. She had confused Randy's lackadaisical attitude toward her fight, with an apathy toward her. But the fire in his eyes said that he was just as much in love with her as the day he had left her side and headed for Smackdown.

As she sat on the bed, staring at him carefully, his last statement rang in her head. "You don't think I support you?" she asked weakly, suddenly feeling drained.

Shaking his head, he looked at the floor. The words had the potential to hurt her, he knew. But he had come this far – why stop? "I know you're life, and everything going on in it, are important to you right now, Trish. But I'm still over here, fighting my fight, ya know? I watch you every week, and I can't wait to call and tell you how great you were." Leaning against the wall, he met her gaze with a saddened one of his own. "Did you even know that I was a tag team champion? Because you didn't call – you never mentioned it." His tone held no accusation, only pain and hurt. "I held that belt for over a month, Trish, and you never said a word about it."

"Randy, I," she started, but then bit her lip again. She had found out, through John, that Randy had won the belt. She had been training with Rob the night it had aired on television, and had only thought of dropping into a hot bath when she got back to her room that night. She had forgotten all about his championship by the next day. And he never brought it up.

His words broke through her mind once again. "I'm not in the Royal Rumble this weekend, Trish," he said, pushing off the wall with his hands in his pockets.

Her head snapped up in shock, her eyes searching his face. "But I watched your qualifying match. You beat Mercury. We talked about working together. . ." she started.

A slight chuckle of resignation escaped his throat. "I won a Number One Contender's match on Thursday's show. I beat Christian. I'm facing Batista for the World title," he sighed, dropping his head to his chest and then looking back at her to realize that she had no idea. Just looking into her guilt-filled eyes made his heart hurt. "Trish, I wanna support what's important to you, but you gotta take a step back and think about what's important to me, too."

He was right. He was absolutely right. In her haste to make sure Vince knew she was serious, she had turned her back on everything else. Her revolution had become the most important thing in the world to her – leaving Randy to fall in somewhere toward the back of the line. And he had done it without complaining. At least, he hadn't complained to her.

Watching her gather her courage, Randy waited for the question. He had already decided he was going to answer it, whether she asked or not. "Have you told Michelle all of this?"

He nodded, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Yeah. In Cabo, I was so pissed at you. I convinced myself that you didn't really give a damn about me, or our plans."

She wanted to interrupt him, to assure him that it wasn't true, but she couldn't make the words come out. She couldn't take her eyes off of the raw emotion on his face. Her Randy didn't break down, ever. It was surreal, and it was honest. All she could do was listen to the mess she had made of their relationship.

Sinking to the end of the bed, Randy finally met her eyes. "She was just easy to talk to, ya know? I mean, I wanted to vent, and she let me. She told me I was right – like you used to do when I would vent about Hunter?" She smiled slightly as he reached for her hand. It was warm, and pleading for forgiveness. "I kissed her," he admitted, averting his eyes again. "I tried to pretend that it was no big deal – that you wouldn't even care anymore if you found out.

"But she wasn't you, Trish. She was beautiful, and she was attentive, and she kept telling me how great I was, and how anyone who didn't realize that was crazy, and I wanted to want her." When he looked up, he was furiously blinking a few tears away. She could tell that he was no happier with them than he was with the memory that had brought them. "I love you, Trish. And I wanna marry you, and have a huge house and lots of kids with you."

She squeezed his fingers and crawled on her knees to his side, leaning her forehead against his when he turned. "I want that, too," she whispered.

With a tender palm on her cheek, he caught a stray tear with his thumb and then pulled back. "But I'm not gonna ask you to put me before this fight. I'm not your first priority right now." He ran his finger over her bottom lip, his heart breaking with each word that he said. "And until I am? I'm not gonna propose. I can't have half of you."

She nodded and smiled when he did, but something wasn't setting right in her gut. "Randy, what does that mean for us now? I mean, are we still together?"

He gave her a genuine laugh and pulled her into his lap. "What? Are you kidding? Did you not just hear me say that I can't have sex with anyone who isn't you? You think I'm gonna go another month without it?" He raised an eyebrow as he linked his fingers together around her waist. "Have you met me?" She smacked his shoulder, and his expression went serious. "I love you, Trish. As much as you piss me off, I'm not gonna stop."

"Don't," she pleaded, taking his bottom lip between hers and running her tongue over the soft flesh. "I love you, too," she breathed when she finally pulled back.

Blinking back tears, she lifted her shirt over her head and pushed him back on the bed, fully focused on the man beneath her for the first time in over a month. She could worry about fighting Vince to the death tomorrow. For now, she had faithful, sex-deprived boyfriend on her hands, and she all she wanted was to surrender.


	13. Are You Ready to Rumble?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: So, this chapter turned out a hell of a lot longer than I had planned, but there was a lot of information to stick in here, so I hope y'all don't mind. Um, according to my outline, there's only three chapters left in this story, so that means the next ones are going to be action-packed and pretty intense. I can't wait to write them, and I hope you can't wait to read them. For now, though, Chapter 13 for your reading pleasure. Oh, and I think I forgot the disclaimer in the last chapter. Not because I suddenly acquired the rights to a bunch of WWE superstars, but because I'm a forgetful, bubble-brain sometimes. I don't own 'em this time either. Enjoy!

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"Focus on his knees," Randy advised, his eyes fixated on the television screen in the dressing room that he was sharing with Trish. "He's a big guy, and it takes a lot out of him to support all that weight. If you take out his knees, you should be able to get him down."

The Woman's champion sat on the back of the couch, elbows on her knees, her mind fully focused as she watched the Rumble unfold behind the scenes. Her number was high, and she was grateful. As much as she appreciated the well-wishes and expressions of belief in her ability, she knew that her friends and colleagues were full of shit. Even at number 27, she knew that her chances of actually winning this thing were next to non-existent, at best.

"I can't eliminate the Big Show if I knock him down, jack ass," she rolled her eyes, took a drink of water, and then playfully smacked Randy's arm, noting that his new World Heavyweight belt was still laying over his shoulder, more than thirty minutes after he had won it back from Batista in a brutal, ugly contest.

But Randy wasn't playing. "Do you know how big this is, Trisha?" He turned toward her and narrowed his eyes, reaching out to touch her foot. "Do you have any idea how huge it will be if you manage to pull this off?"

She did know, but she tried to shrug him off. "If I think about it too much, Sweetie, I'll just go hide in the shower until it's over," she told him, feeling the nausea in her stomach starting again as she watched Show lift Angle with one hand and Chokeslam him back to the mat. That was going to be her in a few minutes.

Finally, Randy's smile cracked the intensity of his expression. Laying his belt over the back of the couch, he twisted his body and grabbed her legs. It wasn't graceful or pretty, but Trish tumbled into his lap with a laugh and wrapped her arms around his neck to keep from rolling onto the floor. "You want a distraction, Baby?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Trish let him kiss her for a second, but the sound of Waterproof Blonde from the television drew her attention to Christian's entrance. He was entrant number 20, and if he was still there when she made it to the ring, he would delight in picking her up and throwing her over the ropes. She knew he could lift her body above his head – he had done it several times while they were dating.

"What advice you got about the CLB?" she asked, struggling to put her feet back on the floor.

Randy trapped her smooth waist in his hands and pulled her back flush to his chest. He was still sticky from the sweat of his own match, but there would be no time to shower until Trish was done. "Hit him low," he instructed, resting his chin on her shoulder.

Pressing her cheek to his, she reveled in the feeling of his closeness. It used to be like this all the time – the two of them watching RAW from their dressing room, while the world rattled in chaos around them. She moved her hand to his face and lazily stroked his cheek when she asked, "Knees or thighs?"

He groaned at the soft feeling of her hand his skin, as he turned his face and kissed her palm. "I'm not talkin' about his legs," he chuckled.

Trish rolled her eyes and tried to concentrate on the show, rather than his erection, now pressing insistently against her ass. "A low blow isn't gonna send him over the top rope," she reminded.

Randy buried his face in her neck, lapping at her tender skin like a thirsty dog. "But it'll be fuckin' hilarious," he finally answered, pulling away from the intoxicating scent of her shampoo.

Wiggling slightly in his lap, Trish watched as number 21, Kerwin White, slid under the bottom rope. She had five more entrants, at 90 seconds each. If she did the math right, that left her seven and half minutes to take care of his, er, tension. "Take your trunks off," she ordered, standing up and motioning for him to strip.

"What?" Randy asked, as though she had issued the command in Japanese.

"Come on. I've only got a few minutes to fix that," she pointed to the bulge in his shorts.

Randy rolled his eyes and stretched his arm over the back of the couch. "You just go out there and kick some serious ass, and I'll take care of that," he winked. Hell, watching her in the ring on a normal night usually made him hard. Watching her on a PPV, in that barely-there tank top, and those low, low, low rise jeans would surely be enough to keep him occupied until she returned.

A knock at the door kept Trish from insisting even further. "Stratus, you need to be at gorilla in 3," the PA shouted from the other side of the door.

Randy watched her turn to look at the television while she hitched her pants a little higher on her hips, before struggling to his feet. His battle with Batista had left him sore and exhausted. But he felt a sense of duty to Trish, to help her get in fighting form, or at least a fighting mindset, before he would be able to rest. "Just remember everything I told you," he started, his hands on her shoulders. "Think about the weaknesses we talked about. Don't vomit on camera," he smiled, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers, "and don't get thrown over the top rope," he winked. She faked a pout. "If you do, don't let your feet hit the floor, and you'll be good to go."

Capturing her bottom lip between his teeth, he held her nervous eyes in his infinitely calmer ones. Trish kissed him hard and then backed toward the door. "You're a whole lot of fuckin' help," she teased before disappearing.

He had just collapsed back to the couch when the door opened again. "Did you forget something?" he asked, his amused grin replaced by a deep frown when he realized it wasn't Trish. "What the fuck?" he started.

Hunter shut the door behind himself. "Relax, man. I just wanna talk to you," he assured, a hand up in defense.

Randy's eyebrow shot up in disbelief, and he subconsciously reached for the belt at his side. "You do?"

Sighing, Hunter sank to the couch and cast a glance at the belt that had, at one time, been designed just for him. "Well, no," he admitted. "But I need to." His expression was grim, and his eyes flitted the room like he was looking for hidden cameras or recording devices. "It's about Trish."

Too tired to put up with The Game's bull shit at the moment, Randy sighed and laid his head back on the couch, closing his eyes. "What about her?" he asked. They had discussed Trish before, and it usually turned into a fight about what was best for their girl. If this was one of those talks, one where Hunter accused Randy of putting her in harm's way, simply to serve his own agenda, the young champion thought he might blow a gasket.

"Vince is starting to come around," Hunter stated, looking at Randy to see if his words registered. If they did, the younger man showed no signs of caring. "He's starting to see that Trish is a making him money, and he wants to step it up."

That piqued Randy's curiosity. "Step it up how?" He rolled his head to the side and opened one eye, but made no further attempt to show any degree of interest.

Sighing, Hunter seemed to take his apathy as a sign of security. The kid was obviously in no mood to fight, so his former mentor slid further into the soft leather of the couch and unbuttoned his sport coat. "He wants to see if he can get anymore fire out of her, ya know? Take the rivalry to the next level."

Randy laughed in spite of himself, getting a little bit annoyed, both at the message, and the messenger. "I don't even know what the fuck you're talking about." Trish was already operating at an eleven, in his opinion. The dial simply didn't go any higher, and Vince would kill her if he tried to send her to another level. "Why don't you stop being so damned cryptic and just get to the fuckin' point, man?" he asked.

Trish's giggle stopped their conversation, as both men looked to the screen. She moved to the ring with a look of focused determination. "He's talking about getting personally involved in this one," Hunter stated.

Randy huffed, raised an eyebrow, and shrugged. He turned up the volume on the screen as Tazz and JR turned their conversation to his girlfriend. He had yet to tell Trish how proud he was of her each time JR praised her courage, but hearing that someone else thought his woman was the shit always made him feel good.

"And, Tazz, I don't know how much of a shot she's got here tonight," JR started, as Trish sprang off the ropes knocked Mysterio to the mat with a clothesline, right off the bat, "But if she goes out, it's not gonna be for lack of trying." Randy wanted to stand and cheer, but remembered that he was not alone, or all that confident in his legs, at the moment.

"Ya know, JR," Tazz broke into the conversation as Trish left Mysterio and turned to drop kick Big Show's knees as he teetered near the ropes. "Trish Stratus may be one of the smartest wrestlers I have ever seen. She's got a great head on her shoulders when she's in that ring," he commented. "Look at that, she just went straight for Big Show's legs."

"I agree with that, Tazz. Take out the big man's feet, and you can maybe get him over that top rope," JR concurred. "Trish has been a talented wrestler for many years, ya know, but lately, she's been focused, and just psychologically tactical in the ring. She's wrestling smart, and I like that."

Randy and Hunter watched as Trish motioned to Booker T, who grabbed Trish's hand and flung her across the ring, her head connecting with Big Show's chest and nearly knocking him off his feet. He gripped the ropes for support, but Booker delivered a high kick to the much larger man's jaw and then high-fived his "partner" as the 7-footer tumbled backwards and hit the floor.

Hunter cleared his throat, as if to remind Randy that he was still there. "You know how Vince feels about being on television," he started.

At this, Randy guffawed, his eyes not leaving the screen as the camera caught Christian noticing Trish for the first time. "Come on, Hunter," he said distractedly. "Vince is the only guy I know with a bigger ego than yours. He loves camera time more than I do."

"He's scared, okay?" Finally laying it on the line, Hunter shifted on the couch and faced Randy. "Look at me," he demanded.

But Randy rolled his eyes and pointed to the television. "My girlfriend is in the Royal Rumble," he pointed out, as the clock in the corner buzzed and the number 28 entrant made his way to the ring.

The black lighting in the arena brought the crowd to their feet, and distracted Christian enough for Trish to get the upper hand, burying her knee in his gut and then shooting a straight right hand into his forehead. She and Randy had talked to Taker after he drew his number, and he had promised to watch Trish's back the best he could. He wasn't going to help her win, and he certainly wasn't going to let her beat him, but he would lead her as far as could.

Relaxing his shoulders, Randy felt as if things were going to be okay now. Taker had that affect on him. The only thing he could liken it to was the feeling he used to get as a kid, when someone wanted to kick his ass, or when his homework was too hard and he just couldn't do it. In those moments, his father would show up, even if he had been on the road for months, and Randy knew everything was going to be alright. Seeing Taker grab Christian by the scruff of the neck and fling him off of Trish gave Randy that same feeling.

"So Vince is scared, huh?" he asked Hunter, turning his attention to his former friend, while still trying to listen to bits and pieces of the match.

Hunter nodded, and Randy noticed that he was still trying to watch the match, as well. As much as the two men hated each other, neither could deny their mutual love for Trish. The woman would forever keep them tied to one another, whether they liked it or not. And, though he would never admit it to anyone, Randy felt better knowing that someone was watching out for his girl when he was away.

"He knows how good Trish is now. He never thought, in a million years, that she would beat Van Dam. He was sure it was a fluke," Hunter stopped and shook his head. "But then the girls beat the Heartthrobs and Conway last week, and he's starting to think that she's for real." Randy's expression was blank as he turned his eyes back to the screen. "He knows he's too old to beat her," Hunter explained.

Randy nodded and watched as Kurt Angle grabbed Trish for a belly-to-back suplex. "That son of a bitch is fondling my girlfriend," he pointed to the television and hissed. Sure enough, Kurt had one arm on Trish's waist as he ran the other up her stomach, under her shirt. "Oh, I'm gonna kill him," he stated, moving for the door with determination.

"Orton," Hunter spoke as though that one word should stop the kid.

Turning, Randy wanted to tell Hunter where to shove his insider information. "What the fuck do you want me to do about it, man?" he shouted. Angle was out there, not trying to beat Trish, but to humiliate her, and he wasn't going to let it happen. Nobody touched his Trish like that – those breasts were his to play with – no one else's. He glanced at the screen to find Kane entering at 29.

Trish threw an elbow into Kurt's jaw, but he didn't let go. It did seem to deter his interest from her chest, though, as he launched her into the suplex and left her writhing in pain on the floor of the ring. Taker intercepted Kane, who was headed right for the blonde on the ground, but all he received was a body slam for his trouble. When the Big Red Machine had annihilated everyone else, he smiled a sick, sadistic smile, and moved toward Trish.

That's when Randy saw her, and his heart jumped into his throat. "Lita," he pointed to the crowd, where the red-headed diva had jumped the barricade and moved toward the ring. She was taunting Kane, calling him names and trying to provoke him. And like the big, dumb oaf that he was, he bit. Trish moved to her feet, and with Mysterio's help, pushed the monster over the top rope. Lita dashed over the security wall and into the crowd, as her ex-husband writhed in pain on the floor.

Truth be told, no matter what pep talk he gave Trish before she entered that match, he had never believed that she would last this long. She was five-foot-four. She weighed less than a hundred and fifty pounds. And, well, she was a _she_. She may have been the strongest woman he knew, but she was still a woman, and there was no way she should have had a part in eliminating two of the biggest men in that match.

"Christian's gonna get her," Hunter predicted as the CLB stood in the corner of the ring, watching his ex-girlfriend squaring off with Booker T in the corner. The entrance music started for the super-secret 30th entrant, and Randy groaned. "Or he is," Hunter shrugged.

Snitsky made his way to the ring with a sneer on his lips. He was supposed to be out of action, and he was bandaged and braced like a cripple, but his eyes said that he was only there for one reason – to get rid of Trish Stratus. Unfortunately for him, Hunter's earlier prediction seemed right, and Christian wanted the woman for himself.

She was still staring in horror as the two men fought it out in the corner. And that's when Booker T grabbed her body and threw her, like a javelin, over the top rope. She smacked the security wall with her shoulder and rolled on the ground for a moment. Both of the men in her dressing room stared in disbelief.

"She lasted awhile," Hunter finally said, as though Randy needed cheering up.

He didn't. And he didn't want any fake sympathy from the man who had, on more than one occasion, tried to break his beautiful face. "She's about as likely to listen to me as she is to you, ya know?" he finally returned to Hunter's former topic of conversation.

Standing, the Cerebral Assassin buttoned his jacket again and moved toward the exit. "I'm not asking you to talk to her, Randy," he said, resting his hand against the door knob. "Just warning you," he advised. "Vince is gonna build it up for a little while longer, but I'd say after Wrestlemania, he's going to be looking for the most painful, humiliating way to end it all. And he's going to offer big incentives to anyone who can help expose her weaknesses."

He was gone, as though he had offered Randy any form of useful information. He still wasn't sure, to be honest, if there was anything he could do, or if Hunter was just trying to fuck with his head. This wasn't his fight – he had meant it when he told her that. So why was he now feeling like the personal bodyguard to the army's general.

Trish burst through the dressing room door moments later, an elated smile on her face. "Did you see that?" she asked with a laugh, her breathing still somewhat labored.

Randy shoved his previous meeting from his head as she jumped into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist. "You were amazing, Baby," he assured her, kissing her when she bent her face to his. "I thought I was gonna have to come out there for a minute," he started.

She rolled her eyes and kissed him again quickly before jumping down and collapsing onto the couch. "He was so trying to cop a feel. Angle, right? You saw that?" Randy nodded, biting his lip and smiling she ran her hand over her stomach and watched him with seductive eyes. "He wanted to touch my," she stopped and raised an eyebrow, lifting the hemline of her tank top a little higher. "Well, ya know what? You had nothing to worry about," she smiled again, standing from the couch and reaching out her hand. "There's only one man that gets to play with these girls," she winked, grabbing her breasts with both hands.

Growling from deep in his chest, Randy slung her over his shoulder, moving slowly as she tapped out a generic beat on his ass with her open palms. "Are you spanking me?" he asked playfully.

"Do you deserve it?" she asked, pressing her lips to his back. "Have you been bad?"

He had behaved for months, but his thoughts were anything but good at the moment. "I'm about to be," he growled, dropping her into the shower.

As they grasped and clawed at one another in the stream of steaming water, Randy pushed all of his worries and doubts from his mind. He could be all careful and alert, like Triple H suggested, when he got back to Smackdown. But until then, for the next twelve hours, he wasn't the World Heavyweight Champion, or the Legend Killer, or anything else that any of them wanted him to be.

He was standing in the shower, naked, with the woman that every little girl wanted to be, and every boy and man wanted to be with. For the next twelve hours, he was Trish's boyfriend, and he was going to spend all of that time showing her just how proud he was to hold that title.


	14. Where Was That Point of No Return Again?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: Okay, so there was only going to be two more chapters to this story, but now I'm thinking there might be three. I'm not sure if I'm going to follow the original outline for the story, or if I'm going to add an unplanned chapter. Anyway, you guys probably don't care, do you? Alright, so I'm tired of trying to think of new ways to disclaim, so that's it - I disclaim. Enjoy!

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_That mother fucker broke my ankle_, Trish thought as she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to rub the tender muscle where Kurt Angle had forced her submissionwith the infamous Ankle Lock. She could feel the blood rushing to her leg, swelling beneath her boot when she pulled herself up on the ropes and draped her arm around the referee's shoulder.

Wrestlemania was in six days, she still didn't have a match on the card, and now she was going to be out of commission again. Of course, she didn't know that her ankle was broken, but she knew the chances were better than 50-50 that she would be on the injured reserves yet again once the X-rays came back. _Way to show Vince who's boss, Stratus_, she scolded herself as she hobbled to the opposite side of the ring.

Mike Chioda held the ropes for her, and Trish was about to duck onto the apron when his music hit and Vince "power-walked" his way to the top of the ramp. The arena, normally filled with cheers at a rare glimpse of the CEO, thundered with "boos" and "You Suck" chants. That reaction alone was enough to diminish the pain a little bit.

Withdrawing her arm from the ref's shoulder, she clutched the ropes and tried to rotate her ankle again. She was pissed at herself for tapping, throbbing with pain in her Chick-Kicking leg, and in no mood to face off with the Chairman. The knowing smirk on his face was enough to send the adrenaline surging through her body, though, fooling her into thinking that she was ready to fight again. Maybe her leg was fucked up, but her fists felt fine. She could lay him out with one punch, if she focused and threw her shoulder into it.

Vince drank in the sounds of the crowd. So what if he was the heel in this situation? Hadn't numbers shown, in the past, that he always made more money with the fans hated him? He looked Trish over, her angry scowl entertaining him to no end. "You okay there, Trish?" he asked, no concern in his voice.

She rolled her eyes and turned for a moment, motioning for Lillian to bring her the microphone. With a bored shrug, she rested her weight against the ropes and looked from the crowd to her boss. "You have somethin' to say, Vince? Or you just miss the glare of the lights and the sounds of the crowd?"

His smile vanished immediately. "I do have something to say, Trish. The new numbers are in from the Royal Rumble. And the quarterly ratings figures from this show, from RAW," he nodded toward her. "And, as much as it pains me to say it, I think you were right."

She had a theory about the men in this business. Any time they paid her a compliment they wanted only one thing: Her on her knees. Whether literally or figuratively, they always wanted to be sucked off, and she was only interested in giving one of them that satisfaction. And that one wasn't Vincent Kennedy McMahon. "I have been known to be right from time to time, Vince," she stated, biting back all of the venom she wanted to spew his direction.

He nodded in concession. "You and your friends have been quite the hit as of late, and it's been good for business, whether I like it or not," he admitted. "And if I've learned anything over the years, building a billion-dollar company, it is that you give the people what they want. No, wait," he held up a hand and shook his head. "You give the people what they will pay for. And what these people will pay for, they proved at the Royal Rumble, is the chance to see some women wrestle.

"And since you've been raising up an army," he narrowed his eyes toward her, waiting for a reaction. She gave him none. "I've decided to give you a match at Wrestlemania."

_How generous_, she thought, noting that the pain was quickly escaping her ankle and moving into her head. He was playing her, and everyone in that arena knew it. Victoria had convinced her to start training the other girls for ring action after the Rumble, and every one of them, without question, had agreed to join the revolution. They knew it was something with the ability to become historic, and they all wanted to jump on board.

"At Wrestlemania," he spoke with an evil, knowing tone, "you will defend your Woman's Championship, Trish, against every diva in that locker room. You will put it all on the line in the first ever," he paused for dramatic effect, and then Trish noticed the wild look in his eyes, "Divas Ladder Match."

A smile tweaked her lips. A Ladder Match was serious. It was a men's match, normally. If he was willing to give them that kind of exposure, maybe he really was starting to take them seriously. Maybe he really was starting to get it. And maybe all of her risks were really making a difference.

"And I don't even get a thank you?" Vince asked, his tone astounded.

Trish shrugged, ready to push him over the line for good. "For what? Giving us what we've deserved for years? Sure," she nodded. "Thanks for finally pulling your head out of your ass and noticing what everyone else has known for awhile, Vince. Gold star effort, man," she held up a thumb and noted that the proverbial steam was starting to seep out of his ears.

"I can't wait to watch you lose that title," he hissed into the microphone.

Trish held her belt up and raised her own microphone to her lips. "You think that's gonna stop me, Vince? You think taking this belt away is gonna settle everything? That I'll just shut up and go away?" She laughed, and then dropped the grin. "This is not about championships for me, Vince. If it was, I would have kept my mouth shut and you probably would have never booked a title defense in the first place. Hell, I could have retired with this thing, if it was just about the belt.

"You can't beat me that easily, Vince. This is about business for you – but it's about pride for me. It's about making an impact for all of those woman who will come after me. It's about going down in history as the most bad-ass, toughest, smartest, greatest female wrestler in the business." The fans swelled to an insane decibel, and Trish waited for them to die down before continuing. "What I do in this ring is not about today. One day, Vince, your empire will crumble and fade. But the legacy that I'm building? That will last forever."

When he bit his lip and met her eye, she knew that she had said too much. Or she had said the wrong thing. Vince was about to make an impact of his own, and she knew she wasn't going to like it. "Are you willing to forfeit your title right now? In order to cement your legacy?"

She hesitated for only a moment, the disconnected ideas in her head starting to fit together. She threw the belt over the top rope and listened to it 'clang' against the floor, her eyes never leaving Vince. "I'll give up my title, Vince. But I want something in return," she raised an eyebrow in defiance.

He gave a half-laugh. "What?"

"You." The crowd went crazy at Trish's answer, and the scoffing look of disbelief on Vince's face. "I want you, in this ring, Vince. I wanna show you what I can really do. I wanna show you that I am not the girl you once collared and leashed, and forced to bark on her hands and knees, not so long ago. I want to show you who Trish Stratus really is, Vince. And I wanna do it in a Last Man Standing match at Wrestlemania."

He seemed curious, but shook his head. "I don't think so, Trish."

"What'sa matter, Vince? Scared?" she taunted.

"I'm not scared, you disrespectful little bitch," he spat. "I'm smart." Regaining his composure, he straightened his jacket collar and cleared his throat. "I know that you could beat me, Trish. It wouldn't be much of a contest. Hell, I'm over sixty years old. What's that going to prove?" The Cheshire cat-like grin that covered his face made her heart drop into her shoes. "I'll make you a deal. I have one brand champion who hasn't signed his contract for Wrestlemania yet. One man who is guaranteed a headlining match – and I'm going to let him have that match against you."

"It's you or nothing," she demanded, shaking her head.

But Vince had already taken her idea and was running with it. "It's a chance to headline Wrestlemania, Trish. You want to prove yourself? You wanna ensure your legacy in this business? You wanna prove you can be the last man standing?" He watched the conflict on her face with great joy. "Come on, Trish. How can you really prove yourself as a legend in this business if you never go face-to-face, hand-to-hand, blow-to-crushing blow with the Legend Killer?"

If she said "yes," the entire future of her personal life could be ruined. But if she said "no," her professional future was doomed, for sure. In a moment she would second-guess a million times, she nodded and didn't try to mask her disgust. "I'll do it."

The crowd at in uncertain silence, unsure of whether they should be happy or not. "We'll do the contract signing on Thursday's Smackdown," Vince said happily, his music playing again as he turned his back.

But Trish was not about to let Vince have the last word. "Wait a minute!" He turned, his eyebrow raised in interest. "I don't want his belt," she stated. "When I win, you hire at least three new female wrestlers, and you push the Women's Division just like you push any of the guys."

He nodded. "Sure. And when you lose," he snickered at his own genius, "you retire. For good."

Trish took a deep breath. Who the hell did she think she was? There were not enough words to describe how bad of an idea this was. From a professional stand point, Randy was a foot taller than her, and almost a hundred pounds heavier. Not to mention the fact that he had been through more than one hardcore match in his career. He had enough power in his weak arm to knock her unconscious, if he wanted to.

But he wouldn't want to. And she knew that she couldn't stand across the ring from the man that she loved and want to beat him, either. Trish Stratus vs. Randy Orton in a Last Man Standing match at Wrestlemania would be one for the ages, win or lose. And, she decided in that moment, it would be her last.


	15. What If Randy Refuses to Fight?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: To those of you who were irate at the last chapter, I have this to say: Just calm the fuck down for a minute. You know it's not over until the last chapter - anything can happen in my stories, so be patient and have a little faith in the Queen. Have I ever let you down? Come on, now!_

_Okay - now that I got that off my chest: To Trishaholic, you were right on with your prediction. Normally I don't like it when someone guesses my twists before they happen, but you get a gold star for paying attention and thinking ahead!_

_Alright, Chuckle Monkies, I got two chapters left - and I don't know who's gonna win at Wrestlemania yet. The angel and the devil on my shoulders are fighting it out at the moment, and I honestly don't know which one is going to get the pin, so we'll all be surprised together! You know the drill - I own nothing. And enjoy!

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Working in OVW. Entering the WWE. Joining Evolution. Defeating Shawn Michaels in a Legend vs. Legend Killer match at Unforgiven. Winning the IC Championship from RVD at Armageddon. Beating Mick Foley and the Rock at Wrestlemania XX. Surviving a Hardcore match with Foley at Backlash. Earning the World Heavyweight title at SummerSlam. Being kicked out of Evolution. Taking out Rick Flair in a steel cage at Taboo Tuesday. Starting a locker room revolt against his old teammates. Leading his team to victory for control of RAW at Survivor Series. Challenging the Undertaker at Wrestlemania 21. Rejoining Evolution. Turning on Triple H after SummerSlam. Losing his Heavyweight Title to Triple H without being pinned or tapping out in a No Holds Barred match at Unforgiven. Teaming up with Booker T to defeat MNM for the Tag titles at Armageddon. Finally besting Batista for his third World Heavyweight Championship at the Rumble. Successfully defending his title against Christian in a Submission match at No Way Out.

Never one for shying away from the chance to talk about his own greatness, Randy had to admit that his accomplishments in the WWE had been impressive, at the very least. He was two days shy of his twenty-sixth birthday, and already had a career many veterans would kill for. He knew that he was lucky to even be afforded the chance to become the Legend Killer, to have the opportunity to work with Triple H, Shawn Michaels, Undertaker, and Mick Foley, let alone how good he was to actually beat them. Normally, a punk-ass military drop-out like himself would be forced to prove that he had the discipline and the drive to deserve a chance at the big boys, and he never forgot that. Though he didn't show a lot of humility for the cameras, he was grateful for everything they had taught him, for everything the company had given him, everything Vince had given him.

He had a laundry list of amazing feats in the ring, and he was proud of everything he had done. But only she made him proud of what he had become. In less than a year, she had turned him from a self-centered, egotistical, cocky punk into a honorable, sacrificial, loving man. Or she was pushing him in that direction. With Trish, he was starting be okay as the guy who took a back seat sometimes, played cheerleader, and was just there when she needed him. He didn't need the spotlight in their relationship, because he had found that the real action took place behind the scenes, where the "Diva" took off her costume, and the real Trish was revealed.

"You okay, man?"

Randy looked up from his spot on an equipment crate to find Batista staring back, an amused glint in his eye. "Oh, yeah, I'm ducky," he shot sarcastically, rolling his eyes and motioning for his friend to join him.

"You decided what you're gonna do out there?" As he lowered his well-dressed frame to the crate at Randy's left, Batista twirled a pair of sunglasses between his fingers.

In less than ten minutes, he would go to the ring and sign a contract for a brutal match with the only person in the world he cared about more than himself. With the flick of a pen, everything was going to change, and he didn't care how much she insisted that it didn't have to.

"I just don't know how I can get out of it," he admitted. For the last twenty hours or so, he had gone over every angle, tried to think of every loophole. Whatever reason she had for accepting the match, he couldn't take it. He was a professional, but the thought of causing any physical pain to the woman he loved made him want to throw up. "I can't do it, Dave. I can't get in that ring with Trish and beat her until she can't get up."

The bigger man was silent for a moment and then let out a half-chuckle, his eyes fixated on the glasses in his hand. "Maybe you're just scared that she'll beat you," he suggested.

Licking his lips, Randy threw his head back and groaned. "She might. But that's not it. Vince is insane," he sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. "I mean, he wants me to go into the ring and beat the shit out of my girlfriend. How fucked up is that?"

"Hey, it's just a match, right? I mean, you and I fight in the ring," Batista started.

But Randy shook his head. "It's not the same thing, man," he interrupted. "You and I have punched each other in the face over video games," he reminded. "Fighting is like a sign of affection for us." Batista nodded in concession. "I don't hit Trish. Ever. And I'm not starting now. Match or not, I refuse to lay my hands on the woman that I will someday vow to honor and protect."

A commotion at the end of the hall distracted both men from their conversation. "Bet it's her," Batista stated.

Trish was supposed to arrive long before the Smackdown taping began, but her flight had been delayed. He had been sitting there, waiting for her, wanting to hold her and assure her that he had a fool-proof plan to make everything okay. But since he had no plan, now he wasn't sure he even wanted to look at her. "Wish me luck, man," Randy formed a fist, bumping knuckles with Batista before walking to gorilla.

XXX

By the time she made it to the ring, the crowd was in a frenzy. Vince stood at the head of the table while Randy and Trish took opposite side, neither looking at the other. His stomach was flopping around like a fish out of water, and he wasn't willing to risk a glance at Trish to see how she was feeling.

Vince made some long, boring-ass speech about the importance of this match, acting like it was the greatest thing he had ever done, as though he'd been in on this whole revolution since the beginning. Randy wondered, just for a moment, if it would be wrong to smash the clipboard over the man's graying head. Maybe throw him through the table, a la Batista/Triple H?

Trish signed the contract and then extended the pen to him, his hand brushing hers. The contact sent a shiver down his spine, and his eyes shot up in an unguarded moment that seemed to make the world stop. He could hear nothing around them, see no one but her. Focused, determined, prepared. And then he signed his name.

The Chairman started to wrap up the segment, but Randy motioned for a microphone and waited for Tony Chimel, the ring announcer, to hand one over. "Can I just say something to my girlfriend?" he looked to Vince with an expression that said he was going to do whatever the hell he wanted, whether the boss liked it or not. "Trish," he turned back and reached for her hand. "You know you're sexy, right?" She almost smiled for the first time since entering the arena, but just nodded her head. "And you're funny, and you're smart. I could go on all night, talking about what a cool chick you are.

"But that doesn't make you all that special, Trish. I mean, hell," he gave her a cocky grin, reminiscent of the man she used to loathe, the Evolution Legend Killer, "I've been with a lot of sexy, funny, smart women, ya know? I think I loved all of them for a minute or two."

She cleared her throat and narrowed her eyes. What the hell did he think he was doing? Was he trying to get her riled up? Ready to fight? When he had promised to think of some solution, some way out of this fight, she had never dreamed he would humiliate her, and break up with her on television.

"But I didn't respect them," he stated firmly, his arrogant smile fading as he gaze bore into hers. "I don't love you because your hot, Trish. Or even because you make me laugh." Standing, he pushed his chair back and pulled on her hand until she made it to her feet. "I love you because you know what you want and you don't stop until you get it. I love you because you aren't afraid to fight for what you believe in."

For a split second, a terrifying thought crossed her mind. She feared he might propose, and started to pull away. "I can't," she growled at him through gritted teeth. Of course, she wanted to, but not right then. Not in the middle of the ring. Not before their match.

"I'm gonna get in that ring on Sunday, Trish, and I'm gonna give people a match they will never forget. I know that's what you want, too. I'm not going to Wrestlemania to fight my girlfriend. And I don't wanna take on the seven-time Women's Champion, either." He dropped her hand abruptly and grabbed his belt, slinging it over his shoulder. "I wanna fight the former World Heavyweight Champion. I wanna fight the leader of the revolution." He licked his lips, raised an eyebrow, and crossed his arms. "I don't wanna kill the legend of Trish Stratus. I wanna create it."

Her eyes flashed for a second, confusion turning to unadulterated pride and joy. He knew that he had said the right thing when she grabbed Vince's microphone and leaned over the table toward him. _Stop it, Trish_, he scolded in his mind. If she leaned any further, he was going to have to put her breasts back in her shirt, and then he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop touching her. Fighting the urge to kiss her was hard enough, what with the passion he could see running through her at that moment.

"All you're gonna see this Sunday in Chicago, Orton," she answered finally, holding his gaze with authority. "is the lights when you hit the ground. I'm not thinkin' about being your girlfriend at Wrestlemania. I'm thinking about being the Last Man Standing."

She dropped her microphone and walked off, swishing her hips as she retreated. Randy followed at a distance, fighting like hell to keep from smiling. The crowd reaction said they had loved the interaction, and so had he. None of them would ever know how many unspoken words had been shared in those glances and stares. And he would never tell them that he was more excited to get in the ring with her than he had ever been to face anyone.

Surely Vince thought that this match would destroy the Orton/Stratus union, and in turn, destroy Trish and her movement. But Randy knew better. His relationship with Trish was built on mutual respect, both of the other's professional success, and personal character. It was fueled by a mutual passion, each for the other's physical and emotional desires. But it was driven by a mutual love for the business that had brought them together.

As he returned to gorilla, he smiled to himself. Even he had believed that Vince was throwing Trish to lions when he booked this match. But he realized now that she had wanted Randy, not Vince, from the beginning. In Boston, he had told her that he knew he took a back seat to her Take Back The Ring revolution, and that he understood. But when he looked into her eyes on that stage, he saw the truth. She wanted him in the front with her, to share it with her. She wanted him to know what it felt like inside the fire.

And she wanted him to be forever linked to her legacy, no matter who won at Wrestlemania.


	16. Are You Ready to Take Back the Ring?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: There are a couple of things I feel like I have to say before you start reading this chapter. _

_First of all, I don't do a lot of individual shout-outs in my stories, because I don't want anyone to feel like their reviews are less important to me than others. But I wanted to say thanks to **heavenleigh88**. You are always the first one to turn in a review for the chapters in this story, and I appreciate it like you'll never know. _

_Also, I wanted everyone who keeps reviewing to know one thing: If you're not careful, I'm gonna start launching into a long-ass, Triple H-style rant about how I'm just That Damn Good. I'm the first to admit I love having my ego stroked, but sometimes I feel completely unworthy of the praise you're heaping on me. It doesn't seem like enough to say "thanks," but it's all I can come up with - even if I am pretty kick ass with words. In all seriousness, it's because of all of you who faithfully review everything I write, that I keep trying to raise the bar and make this chapter better than the last. I can only hope that it's working!_

_Alright, enough of the sappy bull shit - there's enough of that in this chapter. Oh, and just to remind anyone who was confused, or had forgotten, this story is kind of set in the future a little bit - next year's Wrestlemania. And since we all know that most of the Diva Search finalists will end up with WWE jobs sooner or later, I threw the final four into the mix for this chapter, though I had to look them up on the WWE site because I didn't know who was left. Anyway, that's why they're in there, in case you were wondering. Now, onto the story, full of people I don't own! Enjoy!

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Watching the silky fabric of his dress pants pool around his ankles, Trish felt one hundred percent sure that she was doing the right thing. She knew that there was no one else she wanted to share her last match with, and just having him at ringside wasn't going to be enough. She respected what he could do in the ring, and she wanted him with her when that final bell rang.

"Someday," she mused, chewing on a power bar as he searched his gym bag, "I'm gonna love telling our kids how bad I kicked your ass at Wrestlemania 22."

"Yeah?" Randy stepped one foot out of his pants, and used the other leg to fling the discarded clothing at his girlfriend, who was perched on a bench across the room. "Well, you better tell 'em when I'm not around, then."

Trish swallowed the chewy food and rolled her eyes, picking the pants off of her shoulder. "Why's that?"

"Because I'd hate to have to tell our kids what a liar their mother is," he winked, turning toward his locker.

They had arrived at the arena early in the day, jumped through all of the hoops that went along with the biggest event of the year, and had finally returned an hour before show time. Throughout the day, he had talked to reporters, smiled for pictures, and cut what felt like a thousand promos, all while trying to remember every detail of every moment. This night would not be the biggest in his career – but it would be the biggest in hers. And he didn't want to forget any of it.

"Is that so?" Trish asked, popping the final bite of her snack into her mouth and meeting his mischievous eye with the raise of her brow. He was holding his wrestling trunks in one hand, dressed in nothing but the little G-string he wore underneath. And his expression was just daring her not to look down. "You really think you can beat me, Orton?"

He smirked, and she knew she was in trouble. "Come over here and I might let _you_ beat _me_," he challenged, his words thick with innuendo.

Standing, Trish walked toward him, studying the lustful look in his eye. There was really nothing she wanted more than to shove him down on the floor and ride him hard until time for their match. Instead, she brushed his shoulder with her fingernails as she breezed past him and dropped her empty power bar wrapper in the trash.

"I know what you're trying to do," she pointed a finger and smiled coyly.

Randy huffed and bent over, giving her a full view of his bare ass before pulling his trunks up. "What am I trying to do?" he asked innocently.

Trish moved back to the bench and pulled her Stratusfaction tee shirt over her head, tossing him a smirk of her own as she ran her hand up her side and pulled at the strap of her lacy bra. "You're trying to get me all worn out before I get to the ring," she accused with a pout, snapping her strap back into place as he whimpered and leaned against the locker. "But it's not going to work."

Randy chuckled. If only he were so noble. "Baby, I'm not trying to wear you out," he admitted. "I mean, yeah, that would be a plus, but fuck the match. I'm really just thinking about how good it feels to be inside you." She narrowed her eyes and he shrugged innocently. "What? It's not like it's the first time I've thought about fucking you when I should be focused on something else."

The words were meant as an throw-away flirt, but Trish felt their resonance to her core. She knew Randy, better than she knew anyone else, and better than anyone knew him. She loved that the one thing he seemed to learn from Triple H, during his time in Evolution, was the focus of a champion. When he had a match, especially a PPV match, it was all he thought about. And knowing that she had the power to interrupt that focus made her all tingly inside.

For a moment, she just stared at his back, watching his muscles as he strained to find something at the back of his locker. There was nothing about her Randy that she would change. Most of all, she loved his ability to see through the crazy-ass shit that she pulled, to the deeper meaning underneath. She did things he didn't understand, but he never interfered. He trusted her judgment, even when he couldn't see the logic. For that alone, she could love him forever.

"Randy?" Her voice came out strained, timid, and vulnerable.

Turning, Randy grasped a deodorant can in one hand and scratched his chest with the other. "What, Baby?" he asked, an expression of concerned interest on his Adonis-like features.

"I don't know," she shrugged, completely forgetting what she was going to say when he met her eye. If he kept having this affect on her, she wasn't going to last thirty seconds their match. "I gotta get outta here," she stood and ran her fingers through her hair.

He reached out and grabbed her arm, his brow furrowing as he pulled her close to his chest. "What's wrong, Trisha?"

She smiled and placed a kiss on his chin. "I have to fight you in a few hours, and all I can think about is how much I love you," she laughed to herself and watched the grin break out on his lips. "I gotta get outta here and focus on this thing, or it's gonna turn into a PPV of a different kind." He raised an eyebrow in question. "If you don't stop touching me right now, twenty thousand people are gonna see how I make you scream my name at night."

Licking his lips, Randy nodded his head and moved his hand from her bicep to her cheek. Kissing her forehead, he released her. "Get outta here," he motioned toward the door, and then cleared his throat. "Baby?" Trish turned back. "You wanna put your shirt back on first?"

She looked down and blushed as she realized she was still in her bra. "See what you're doing to me?"

"That wasn't me," he nodded toward her little faux pas, as she pulled her tee shirt back over her head and grabbed her bag. "If I had taken it off, you wouldn't be leaving this room right now," he reminded.

She shook her head and rolled her eyes, stepping close enough to smell the scent of soap on his freshly showered skin. "Yeah?" He nodded and dropped a kiss on her nose. "You go easy on me tonight and I'll let you take more than my shirt off when we get back to the hotel," she winked.

His heartbeat accelerated as he breathed deeply and then held the spray can up between them. With a tiny 'spritz' to her chest, he shook his head. "Nice try, Stratus," he smiled. "But I see through your little mind games, and they're not going to work," he pushed her toward the door.

"I'll just have to try something else then, won't I?" she asked with a triumphant smile, leaving before he could respond.

In the hallway, she sighed. _Dammit – what was I thinking? Every time he looks at me, my tummy gets all fluttery. I can't get in that ring with him. All he does is smile at me, and my knees get all weak. I'm gonna collapse for no good reason in front of thousands of people. He's gonna hit a cross-body and I'm just gonna lay there and run my nails down his back. And if he hooks my leg – fuck! Wait, he can't hook my leg – there's no pin falls. Okay, so that's good_.

She continued her inner-dialogue as she walked through the hall toward the Diva's locker room. _I can do this. I can beat him. I beat Hunter – I can beat Orton. He's not my boyfriend tonight. He's not the guy I love out there. He is not the man that fucks me until I can't move and still makes me want more. He is not the most delicious thing I have ever – shit! Dammit! Why am I so fuckin' horny? Jesus – I should just go back. If I get him out of my system, maybe . . ._ She faltered in the hallway and started to turn back.

"Hey, Stratus," a voice interrupted her.

Trish turned again, to find Victoria in the doorway of the locker room she had almost entered. "What's up, V?"

With a small shrug, her normally confident best friend seemed almost, well, shy. "Um, the girls are all pretty jittery in here. I was thinking maybe a pep talk from our leader would be a good thing?" She averted her eyes to the floor and then looked back. "I know you've got your big main event," she started.

A pang of guilt shot through Trish. The look on Victoria's face spoke volumes, and Trish forgot everything about Randy, and her own match, in that instant. Following her friend, she entered the locker room to find fifteen anxious woman fluttering around the room in jeans and matching tee shirts. How the hell were they all going to get into that ring and create a match that was anything but a cluster-fuck of confusion?

Anger seared at her from inside, as Trish realized something that she should have seen sooner. Vince wasn't offering them a chance at the big leagues. He was trying to show the world that the women couldn't find their ass in the dark with two flashlights inside that ring. He was trying to humiliate them all.

Standing on a chair, Trish put her fingers in her mouth and blew, the loud whistle quieting the room in an instant. "Hey," she smiled when she had their attention. "I'm not exactly good at the whole "pep talk" thing, alright? But here's the deal – Vince doesn't want this match to get over. He doesn't want you guys to steal the show. In fact, I think he wants you to fail miserably."

She took in the skeptical looks from a lot of the newer girls, and she sighed. "Alright, look," she started, her shoulders falling slightly, "I know that most of you are under the impression that I don't like you very much, and you have every reason to believe that." She sighed and gave Christy Hemme the best smile she could muster. "The truth is, I don't really know most of you. You think I'm hard on you because I'm jealous that you get Playboy offers, or because you tried to get with my boyfriend at some point."

Maria, Stacy, Michelle, and Melina all looked away guiltily at that accusation, but Trish shook her head. "That's not it. Truthfully, I've gotten more offers to pose nude than most of you get phone numbers at bars. And I actually get to wake up next to Randy in the morning, so don't think for a minute that jealousy has anything to do with my attitude. It's just that, when I look at most of you, it reminds me of a time in my career that I'd rather not think about. And I know that there's so much more out there for you, if you stop settling for being the T and A, and really grasp what this business is about.

"The thing is," she looked over at Lita and smiled. "This thing that we are all a part of, is not about best friends. It's not about what I've done to you in the past, or what any of you have done to me, or each other. The truth is, I don't have to like you to trust you in the ring. I don't have to like you to want you all on my side in the most important battle most of us will ever fight."

There were slight murmurings around the room, and Trish took a minute to look them over. The rookie girls – Ashley, Elisabeth, Krystal, and Leyla – looked like they might throw up. Sharmell, Candice, and Maria weren't faring much better, either. Melina, Michelle, and Christy looked to Torrie and Stacy for some kind of sign that Trish wasn't going to attack them when she got off that chair. Lita and Victoria just stood to the side, their arms crossed, worried looks on their faces.

"Look, tonight I'm gonna headline Wrestlemania. I'm gonna be the face of our cause, and they're gonna bill my match as the one that decides the fate of our movement." She shook her head, hoping that the sincerity in her voice mirrored the feeling in her soul at the moment. "But they will be wrong. The most important match tonight is the one that you guys are putting out there. You're the ones that have to carry this thing once I'm gone. Tonight, you get the chance to prove that you are capable of shouldering that burden.

"If I didn't think you could do it, I wouldn't have stepped out of the way. If I didn't think there was a future for the Women's Division of this company right here, just waiting to be cultivated, I wouldn't have missed the chance to kick all of your asses out there." She smiled slightly. "You have two leaders over there," she nodded to the women who had helped her start the fire, "who can teach you so much more than they have already. And when they're gone, Vince is gonna try to bring in more girls with bigger tits and tighter asses. And he's gonna be pissed when you take them under your wing, and you show them what we've shown you."

Clapping her hands, she laughed and rolled her eyes at Victoria and Lita. "Have you ever heard such sentimental bull shit out of my mouth?" Both women smiled and shook their heads. "Here's the deal," she turned back to the attentive group before her. "I appreciate the gesture of the tee shirts," she pointed to them and then shook her head. "But they have got to go. Fifteen of you in the ring, dressed the same, is gonna do nothing but confuse people. You look generic, and it's hard to tell you all apart."

Jumping off the chair, she motioned for her fellow leaders to join her. "These two are the best female wrestlers in the world right now – next to me, and some chicks in Japan that nobody in that arena's probably ever heard of," she conceded. "Most of you won't be able to keep up with them. It's okay," she assured the eager faces, soaking up her advice. "You don't have to – there's gonna be too many people in that ring to begin with. Start a fight on the outside – create your own feuds. Give them a storyline that people want to see after this thing is over.

"If there is one thing I've learned over the past few months, it's that Vince won't get rid of someone the people are willing to pay to see," she shook her head and took another minute to take in the faces around her. "Make yourself worth enough that he can't, no matter how much he wants to, fire you. Show those die-hard wrestling fans that we can hang with the boys, okay?" With a wink, she looked at Torrie and Christy, the Playmates. "And it's okay to be sexy. You can be strong and sexy at the same time, alright? People have proven that they'll pay to see you naked – so if you gotta go out there in your underwear to prove how tough you are – do it.

"Ladies," she decided to wrap it up, for fear she might burst into tears at any moment, "Tonight we pull out all the stops. We show them that WWE stands for Women's Wrestling Entertainment. Wrestlemania 22 will forever be remembered as the night the women took back the ring!"

They all cheered, started shaking hands and hugging each other, as Trish slipped from the locker room. That was it – her last appearance in the diva's locker room. So she had gone out on a cheesy, Braveheart kinda moment. At least she was sure that the divas of the business would never forget her.

Now all she had to do was focus on making sure the fans wouldn't.


	17. So This Is How It Ends?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: Alright, so I kinda lied a little bit. Not intentionally or anything, but this is NOT the last chapter of BoG. There was a loose end I needed to tie up before getting to the last chapter. And to be really honest, I'm not sure that the next chapter will be the last, either. I know I can write another story about Randy and Trish, but I've grown to love them in this one, and I'm not sure I'm ready to let it go just yet. I promise it won't be more than twenty chapters, but maybe making it the same length as The Emancipation is the right way to go. I don't know - it's a fight I'll have with myself later. But for now - here's the new chapter, chocked full of people I don't own, and emotions I don't usually show. Enjoy!

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Trish sucked in a deep breath and raised her hand to the heavy wooden door. There was one more thing that she knew she had to do before she could wrestle this match, and it wasn't going to be easy. He would be pissed, but she was sure that he would get over it, just like he always did.

Twisting the handle, she pushed the door with her shoulder and then smiled as the pair in the center of the room jumped apart like high school kids. Raising an eyebrow at them, she watched as Stephanie tried to straighten her skirt and her hair at the same time. Hunter just smirked, leaning back on the couch with his arm over the back of the soft leather, one shirt tail hanging out over his pants, the buttons undone to his navel.

"Ever heard of knocking, Stratus?" he asked, laughing when she shook her head.

Stephanie ran a finger around her lips, wiping any smears away, and stiffened her posture. "I'm just gonna go see if my dad needs anything," she mumbled, sliding her stilettos on as she fumbled toward the door.

Trish watched her leave and then leaned on the door that her friend's wife had just slammed. "So, now I see how the executives get ready for a Pay Per View," she grinned, pushing off the door and headed toward him.

"What do you want?" Hunter smirked, his eyes sweeping over her appreciatively.

She had grown up a lot in the last five years, his little Trish-ster. When they had first met, she had been just another faceless diva slut with more boobs than brains. But then she had asked him to show her a few wrestling moves. She had told him that she wanted a career that lasted more than two years – she knew that she would have to make herself indispensable inside the ring to prove to Vince that she was more than his little bitch.

Hunter had seen her heart, her determination, and her passion for the industry grow over the years, and he had been proud to say that he had a part in it. Sure, he had been pissed when she turned on him. Especially that she had turned on him for a cocky, disrespectful frat boy like Orton. But the more he thought about her actions, the more blame he heaped on his own shoulders. Trish was smart, and she didn't do things without a reason, and he had been wrong to assume that she would stay hidden in his shadow forever.

In an attempt to hold on to some of his pride, he told himself that he had been the one to bring Trish and Randy together in the first place, since they had met through Randy's first stint in Evolution. Of course, they had claimed to hate each other, but they had been so similar, even back then, that he should have seen it coming. They were both so stubborn, so focused, and so driven to succeed in those days.

After a million looks back at everything that had happened in the course of the last year, he had finally come to terms with the fact that they were good for each other. Trish had outgrown the need to show her body for attention, and Orton had gotten over the need to talk about his.Trish had stopped sleeping with every other freak-of-the-weak to feel loved, and Orton had stopped tapping every ass that stumbled across his path just because he could.

Even as his thoughts wandered over the true evolution of his past protegees, Trish cleared her throat and stared at him through thick lashes. "Hunter?" He raised an eyebrow in response. "I have to tell you something."

He nodded and gestured for her to speak. It used to be like this all the time – the two of them in his dressing room before a big show, talking about whatever was on their minds. Sure, it was different now, but he hoped that they would someday find their way back to the old days, in some form or another. "What's up, Kiddo?"

She had been fighting the tears all afternoon, but now it was too much. There was no one person in the company who had been as important to her, for as long, as he had. He was her protector when she didn't know how to protect herself. And he had been the one to hold her, to promise her that the right guy would find her someday, when she had broken up with Jeff Hardy. He was the one who threatened to kick Jericho's ass when he found out about that damned bet. And he was the one who threatened to kick hers when she started sleeping with the Creepy Little Bastard. He was the only one who had cared from day one.

Watching her blink her eyes at a furious rate, Hunter moved across the leather couch to pull Trish into his arms, her face buried in his chest. "Hey." His voice was soft, paternal. "Trisha, hey," he repeated, pulling back to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "What the hell is wrong? Are you worried about tonight? Did Orton do something?"

She watched his nostrils flare angrily and shook her head, sniffling and wiping her cheeks. "No," she laughed finally. "No, it's not Randy. It's me. And you," she started to cry again.

He was stumped. Hadn't he assured her that they were okay? He rocked her gently, one hand on her back and the supporting the back of her neck. There were not many people in the world who got to see this side of him, but there weren't many who made him feel like she did. "Trisha, we're good," he promised. "We're fine. You and me," he whispered.

Wiggling out of his arms, she smacked his shoulder. "I can't believe this. I have a fuckin' match in, like, fifteen minutes, and I'm a blubbery mess. I should be focusing, I know. I should be in my locker room, thinking about what's going to happen out there," she started to ramble.

Hunter touched her hand, resting limply between them on the couch. "Shut up and tell me what's wrong," he said firmly.

Trish rolled her eyes and took her hand back. "I can't shut up _and_ tell you, ass clown," she pointed out. He flipped her off, seemingly breaking the tension that had been building in her. "Tonight's my last match," she said finally.

But Hunter shrugged his shoulders and stood, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. "You can beat him, Trish. I mean, Orton's good – he's damn good – but he's not unbeatable," he encouraged. "You can get inside his head, probably easier than I could."

Moving to him, Trish interrupted with a hand on his back. When he looked into her eyes, he saw the same firm determination that always accompanied her bad decisions. "I agree. I think I can beat him," she stated. "I wouldn't have accepted the match if I didn't think I had a shot."

"But if you win," Hunter started, his heart sinking when Trish shook her head. "You're retiring anyway."

With a nod, she moved back to the couch. "Are you completely disappointed in me?" she asked, burying her face in her hands.

He wanted to tell her she could never disappoint him, but that wouldn't be true. The truth was, as much as he could argue that the business needed her, he needed her even more. Something about having Trish around told him that everything was going to be okay. And having her walk away before he was ready to let her go was, well, disappointing. "Why?" was all he could manage.

She sighed and leaned back, resting her head lazily against the back of the couch. Hunter almost laughed – it was the exact same posture Orton had taken with him a couple of months earlier, at the Royal Rumble. "Because I feel like I've done everything. I've won the Women's title seven times, Hunter. I've won the World title once. I've beaten the girls, and the guys, and I've made a name for myself," she started. He looked like he might interrupt, so she kept talking. "I'm ready."

His skepticism was still etched on his features, so she laid the truth on him. "I want to be a wife who spends some actual time with her husband, more than I want to be a wrestler who spends every night missing her boyfriend. I want to be a mom who watches her kids grow up, and gets to teach them cool shit, more than a champion who just takes nine months off and then hands them to a nanny.

"Having a family and a career is not a decision that you guys have to make," she pointed out. "And I can bitch about how it's not fair that I can't have both, but it doesn't change anything. It's a choice I'm ready to make."

He couldn't argue. She had thought it out, and it was time. Everything about her posture and her tone said that she wouldn't be swayed. She had come into the WWE on Vince's terms, but she would leave on her own. And he couldn't be disappointed in her for that. "Look, I don't want you to go," he said honestly, pulling her to her feet and crushing her against his chest. "But I'm proud of you, Trish."

Catching another sob before it could escape, she pulled back and smiled. With one thin hand, she wiped a tear from his cheek, one he would, no doubt, deny was there. "It's not like I'll never see you again, I know, but I wanted you to be the first to know."

There was another moment of comfortable silence as the two friends watched each other and thought about the years of memories they shared. Finally, Hunter put his hands on her shoulders. "You got a match to win," he reminded.

Trish sniffled again and nodded. "Come see me in the trainer's room when this thing is over?" He nodded and she kissed his cheek again quickly. "Thanks. For everything."

Wandering into the hall, Trish checked her watch and rubbed her eyes again. _Thank God for waterproof mascara_, she told herself as she rounded the corner to gorilla, where Randy stood with Cena, Batista, and Victoria.

Approaching from behind, Trish put her right hand on Victoria's new Woman's belt, and her left on the Heavyweight belt over Randy's shoulder. "What are we talkin' about?"

Batista, Victoria, and Cena all heaved sighs of relief at her presence, but Randy just rolled his eyes. "Great," he turned to Cena. "I owe you," he promised with a nod.

"For what?" Trish asked, a smile on her lips.

"He bet me fifty bucks you wouldn't show up. Said something about you hiding in the shower or something?" Cena laughed as Trish smacked Randy's ass.

Victoria reminded Batista and Cena that they should leave the main-eventers alone to prepare for their match. After hugs, hand shakes, and well-wishes, Trish found herself alone with Randy, and a few members of the production crew. "So this is how it ends?"

A tiny lump of emotion formed in Randy's throat. "Why is it you only ask me that when one of us is about to be laid out in agonizing pain?" He recalled the last time she had voiced the question, in a hotel room when he told her he was going to Smackdown. They had nearly broken up that night, and he didn't like the memory all that much.

"Oh, Sweetie," Trish scratched his back lightly, noting that he was swaying from one foot to the other nervously, "that's not gonna happen tonight."

Randy raised an eyebrow and turned, his hands resting on her waist. To say this was his most unusual pre-match confrontation of his career would be a severe understatement. He had never held Batista before they went head to head, or rested his forehead against Ric Flair's, just staring into his eyes before they met in a steel cage. He had damn sure never let Triple H run his hands over the Legend Killer's ass before one of their title matches, and the thought of placing tiny kisses on Mick Foley's nose before their contests? Well, that was enough to make him swear off kissing forever.

"You think you're gonna get all the offense tonight?" he asked, challenging her before catching her lips with his. So maybe he wouldn't swear off kissing forever – not if it meant never licking the inside of Trish's mouth again.

She pushed back from the kiss and stepped out of his embrace. "Oh, no. I fully intend on both of us ending up in agonizing pain. That's what this about, right?" He seemed confused. "We promised those fans a show like they have never seen. And I'm not intending on holding anything back when we get out there."

He nodded in concession. He didn't want to go out there and hit her. He didn't want to beat her until she couldn't stand on her own. He didn't really want to be in this match at all, and he sure as hell didn't want her retiring. But he had learned, over the past year, that it didn't matter what he wanted anymore. All he really cared about was making sure Trish had whatever she wanted.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Lillian's voice could be heard over the speaker in the arena. "The following contest is a Last Man Standing Match, where the only way to win is to. . ."

She continued explaining the rules and Randy pulled Trish into his embrace one last time. "When this is over. . ." he started.

Trish put a finger over his lips and winked. "Surprise me."

'Burn in My Light' played to twenty thousand cheers, and he kissed her forehead. "Let's give 'em somethin' to scream about, baby," he smiled ran up the stairs to the curtain.

When he had disappeared, Trish bit her lip. Her career would be over in twenty minutes. But she felt like her life was just beginning.


	18. Are You Stratusfied?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: Alright, so just a couple of things before you read this one. This chapter, to me, is the most important in either of The Emancipation or Blaze, so I wanted to make sure that I got it right. I don't know if you'll love it, or be highly disappointed, but I feel good about it. And I have to say thanks to Kiera, for your great ideas and the support. Hope you like how it turned out._

_Also, the song I mention in the first paragraph of this chapter is the one that first inspired me with the idea for this sequel, so if you haven't heard it - find it and check it out. Then tell me if it's not Trish, and this story, to a tee. Even down to the cities mentioned, it is perfect. Oh, and if you read The Emancipation, you'll recognize the italicized portions of this story. In an attempt to wrap everything up, I went back to the beginning a little bit. Hope you don't get confused! _

_I don't own 'em, but I sure have loved playing with them for my own amusement, and yours. Enjoy!

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Standing behind the black curtain, just out of sight, Trish let out a deep breath. Years from now, she would try to recapture this night, to explain this moment in time to her kids. She would tell them about her intro, and what it was like to hear the symphonic sounds of thousands, screaming her name in unison. But as her giggle penetrated the speakers, and the fans started to chant for her, she knew it would be impossible to replicate. She could tell of the money she had spent to attain the rights to this night's theme music, but would never be able to describe the feeling in her gut as she stepped through the curtain to Green Day's 'She's a Rebel.' She could show them a dvd of Wrestlemania 22, but the electricity coursing through the Chicago air, threatening to tear the roof off of the United Center, would never transfer to video accurately.

"And making her way to the ring, from Toronto, Canada," Lillian tried to shout over the roar of the crowd, "TRISH STRATUS!"

She climbed the stairs and stepped onto the apron, letting out a final sigh of anxiety before ducking her head and entering the ring. Half of this crowd, without a doubt, thought there was no way she would beat him. They believed this would be her last match. But the only other person in the arena who knew it for sure was watching her intently from the other side of the squared circle.

There was no smile on Orton's face – just the determined glare of the Legend Killer.

_When he had first joined Evolution, with that cocky grin and that amazing body, she had crushed out a little. But, thankfully, before she went too far, she realized what a cocky blow-hard he was. They had never seen eye-to-eye again._

It was an expression she hadn't experienced since before last year's Wrestlemania, and it was one that she couldn't say she had missed.

She rotated her shoulders and stretched her neck, hopping from one foot to the other, while holding her opponent's gaze. The music stopped, and she sniffled, determined to let him make the first move. _'Be ready to strike first. But let them come to you. Let them think they're on the offensive.'_ Rob's words rang in her head as Randy watched her intently.

"Let's go," he hissed, cracking his knuckles and shaking his arms at his sides.

"_We've already proven that we can beat you. And you got nothin' on us. In fact, ya know what I say, Triple H? What we say?" He looked down to Trish, who was glaring at the camera with an angry, focused look. "Tell him what we say, baby," he nodded his head toward the camera, as if giving her permission._

_Trish gritted her teeth and found that an irritated tone wasn't hard to find. This character was fun._

"Bring it on," she motioned, shrugging her shoulders.

He stepped toward her, no doubt ready for a collar-and-elbow tie up, but with his size advantage, she knew it would be of no benefit. Instead, she leapt into the air and landed a standing drop kick to his sternum.

The unorthodox move knocked him back, but he grabbed the ropes to regain his balance, shaking his head for a moment. With an "oh, it's on" chuckle, he exploded off the ropes and ran toward her with an outstretched arm.

_"Leverage," he stated and then held up a second finger, "and momentum. You can't overpower Hunter, but you can knock him onto the mat if you hit him from up high or use his own momentum to trip him up, okay?" She nodded and bit her lip, an adorable picture of full concentration._

Shooting her own arm out, she hooked his elbow for a deep arm drag. He tucked his long body in the air, flipped, and landed flat on his ass. Grabbing his elbow again, she applied an arm bar to his surgically repaired shoulder. _'Know your opponents weaknesses, Trish. Exploit them, to whatever advantage you can.'_ She silently thanked Triple H for that advice as she tweaked Randy's shoulder upward again.

Cringing, he tried his best not to call out in pain. That would only fuel the woman above him, her knee jammed in his spine as she wrenched his arm at an unnatural angle. She had to know that she couldn't beat him with that move, but he had a feeling she was just aiming to make him hurt like hell. Gathering the strength he knew she couldn't counter, he fought to his knees, forcing her to relax her grip. Snaking his bad arm up, he grabbed the side of her head for an RKO.

But Trish knew Randy – not only as a man, as a wrestler. She had watched every match, every house show for six months, and televised event for almost a year. She had never studied an opponent like she had studied him. With her hands on his ass, she shoved him off with everything she could muster. He flew across the ring, his legs dangling over the second rope as his shoulders hit the mat and he finally cried out.

She listened to the crowd swell in appreciation of her counter, and narrowed her eyes at the man before her. The referee counted to three before Orton untangled himself from the ropes and stood. Intent on delivering the Chick Kick, she bent her knee twice and waited for him to turn.

But as well as Trish knew Randy, he knew her twice over. Even while she was training, and leading this new movement of Girl Power, he had watched her. While she had been too busy to think about him, he had been focused on her. Something in his gut had always told him it would come to this, and he grabbed her leg before she could swing it at his face.

She felt her balanced foot leave the mat before she realized that he had averted her attempted maneuver. Squeezing her eyes shut, Trish felt her head smack the mat as Randy simply slammed her to the ground. Her hands went, instinctively, to her neck as she writhed in searing pain.

Watching as she moved her hand from her neck to her back, Randy tried to ignore the stabbing guilt in his chest. He had done pretty well, at least he thought, at pretending she wasn't his girlfriend to this point. She was just this chick who wanted to steal his thunder, some girl who thought she could step up to the Legend Killer.

Grabbing a handful of her hair, he dragged her to the center of the ring and stood her up. She wanted a standing drop kick? He would show her how it was supposed to be done. Leaping into the air, he felt his feet connect with the pillow-y softness of her chest as she let out a 'oomph' on impact, and crumbled to the ground.

Rolling to her stomach, Trish crawled to the ropes, pulling herself up again. "Jesus, woman," Randy sighed as she bounced off the tight cables and launched herself at him again. He caught her in mid-air, watching her legs kick before power-slamming her to the mat. "Just stay the fuck down."

The flames shot up her spine again, but she groaned and lifted her knees, trying to circulate some feeling as the referee started counting. Stay the fuck down? Right. Like he thought that was going to happen.

_"I'm only gonna say this once, and I want you to listen carefully. I love you, Trish. I love you because your strong, and because you have the courage to go after what you want, even if it doesn't make any fuckin' sense."_

If there was one fault to Orton's game, it was over-confidence. Turning his back on Trish, he walked to the opposite ropes and gingerly touched his shoulder. She had tweaked it good in the beginning of the match, and after all the lifting and slamming, the bastard was starting to throb. Had he stayed focused, like a humble man would have known to do, he would have seen her nip up and climb to the top rope.

Trish sat perched on her toes, holding onto the turnbuckle for support. Was he underestimating her? Awe, hell no! "Hey, Legend Killer!"

Her voice startled him, and when Randy turned, it was just in time to find his face on the receiving end of her boot.

The crowd erupted as Triple H, dazed by the confusion, turned toward Trish. Without a thought, she Chick Kicked off the top rope, flying through the air once again. She felt her knee pop as the flat of her foot connected with the middle of his forehead.

Had this been a normal match, Trish knew that she could have pinned him at that moment. Stupid guys, always underestimating her ability. They said they knew she was strong, but they all believed it wasn't enough. Not enough to beat them, anyway. Shoveling a handful of hair out of her face, she rested in the corner as the referee started counting.

For a split second, she worried that he might be concussed, but shook it off. He was Randy Orton, after all. He'd been knocked senseless in the ring before. He had shaken it off with guys three times her size. He could do it again.

'Never fool yourself into believing you're safe.' Rob's words echoed in her mind again as she hoisted herself into a seated position on the top turnbuckle. _'It's not over until the bell rings, Trish.'_

She didn't want to go to the 'high-risk' district too often, but leverage was her only prayer against Orton. He was too tall for her to take on level ground. A Five Star Frog Splash might lay him out for good. Or, if she could execute a cross body – that would do it. Of course, the ref was already up to six and he hadn't moved, so maybe she would just end her career there, sitting on her ass in the corner, waiting.

But Orton wasn't going to let it end that easily. On the eight count, he made it to his feet and walked toward her with determination. Trish stood on the second ropes for a moment before Randy lowered his head and drove it into her stomach. She grunted and flew backward, clinging to his shoulders and tucking her feet under the ropes to keep from flipping off the turnbuckle.

Placing a foot on either side of her legs, Randy balanced himself over her. "Get up," he ordered her to stand, and she did. She could try to push him, but she was in a precarious position. If he went, she went, too. _'Don't break your neck trying to counter a move, Trish. A fall off the top rope will hurt like fuck, but there are ways to cushion it without permanent damage.'_

She tried to concentrate on words of wisdom Hunter had given her back in the beginning of her training, but with the crowd cranked to an eleven, it was nearly impossible to hear her own thoughts. They were stomping their feet, clapping, whistling, screaming, and beating on the seats in front of them. Maybe it was Randy bouncing on the ropes, but it felt like the building could just collapse at any moment.

Randy was accustomed to deafening crowds – he had heard them a lot in his tenure with Evolution, and then after breaking away. Tuning out the noise, he focused on executing the Superplex safely, wanting to put her down for the count without re-injuring them both in the process.

_Her eyes pooled with tears and her lip started to tremble, but he forced himself to go on, not to break down. "I spent every waking moment thinking about you. I missed you. I almost told Hunter a million times that week because I just wanted you. Back then, I didn't even give a shit if I ever got the fuckin' belt back. I just wanted to be back with you, even if it was just to throw that goddamned rubber ball back and forth in the therapy room._

Though he had loved getting to know Trish in the rehab room a year ago, they were well-past the need for that kind of alone time now. Slinging her arm over his shoulder, he put a death grip on her waistband and prepared to launch them both backward.

It should have worked perfectly – picture perfectly. They were both ready for a highlight moment, set to deliver the maneuver the way it was supposed to be delivered. But they were both hot from exerting so much energy, and Trish's foot slipped on the sweat spilling from Randy's forehead. Or from her own body – she couldn't be sure.

All she did know for sure was that she and Randy fell, together, onto the mat-covered concrete floor at ringside, landing with a loud 'smack.' He broke her fall by hitting first, and she rested her head on his chest. There was a collective gasp from the fans, and the referee would have to start counting soon. Trish knew there was a good chance neither of them were getting up in time as she listened to his heart pounding beneath her ear.

"Are you still alive?" Randy groaned, lifting his head from the ground. The room blurred and he laid back down. The count had started.

"Yeah," Trish mumbled into his chest. "You?"

"Think so," he grunted, struggling to sit. "You broken?"

"Probably." She rolled off of his body, noticing the absence of his warmth as soon as she touched the cold floor. Staring at the ceiling, she bent her knees and tried to gather her energy.

Satisfied that she could either continue, or lose, he struggled to sit. Blinking back the tears of pain that were stabbing the backs of his eyes, he pulled himself up. As he leaned on the apron, he watched Trish and listened to the ref counting. When he was at seven, Randy bent to lift his girlfriend to her feet.

With a questioning look into his eyes, she saw it. The fire. The fans were chanting for her, and he was proud. He wasn't smiling, but his crystal stare said that he could feel it. For the first time, he understood exactly why she had done what she had done, why he had to be the one there with her at the end.

She was hurting, he could tell. She wasn't resting her weight on her left leg. And the way she kept flexing her hand told him that her circulation wasn't flowing right. She was hurt. Hell, he was hurt – he could feel his knee swelling underneath his pads, and his head was throbbing. The last thing either of them wanted was to go on.

_It was their job, after all. No matter what happened, no matter who got hurt, the show went on. This is what they did – that was why the fans came back. They were the immortals, impenetrable by weakness and pain. They thrived where mere men cowered in paralyzing fear._

Randy raised an eyebrow and nodded. "Let's finish this," he grinned, closing the gap between them with a quick step and a jump.

The RKO laid Trish out flat, and the count started once again.

1. . 2

It had been all she had wanted – one last match that they would never forget.

3. . 4

With every ounce of fight left in her exhausted body, Trish wiggled her toes, and then her fingers. If she could still move, she would struggle to stand.

5. . . 6

She would, at least, go out with her head raised.

7. . . 8

As if functioning of it's own volition, her body moved past sitting.

9. . .

She pulled herself up on the ropes and turned to see that the ref had stopped the count. Orton was in awe, and truth be told, so was Trish. Shaking her head, she thought about what it would take to end him for good. She had never believed, for a second, that she couldn't win this match. And she didn't believe it now, either.

Climbing the ropes and delivering the Five Star crossed her mind. Or she could try a Pedigree, but Orton was so much bigger, and he had proven he could counter that. She could just RKO his ass, but it wasn't what she wanted. A Widow's Peak? Maybe a Twist of Fate?

Shaking her head, she drew her focus back to her opponent, only to find him climbing the opposite corner. He was going for the cross-body, and she knew, in that moment, what she needed to do. It would take Mysterio's balance, Batista's strength, RVD's energy, Shelton Benjamin's agility, and Benoit's daring. She didn't have any of that left in her.

But, dammit, she was Trish fuckin' Stratus.

Exploding off the ropes, she ran to the opposite side of the ring, using her momentum to leap to the top rope. In one fluid motion, she turned her body, secured Randy's head under her arm, and propelled them both to the mat, slamming his face in what could only be described as a Flying Stratusfaction from the top rope.

Even as she crawled toward the ropes, pulling herself to a vertical base, she couldn't believe it had happened.

_It wasn't supposed to happen. She knew it, and so did everyone else in that arena. Her body wasn't supposed to do the things she had forced it to do. She was not supposed to be the first female World Heavyweight Champion in history. But she was. _

The referee counted the ten, not that anyone in the arena could hear it. Orton hadn't moved, and the trainers were on their way down the ramp. She had done it – she had beaten him. She had shown Vince exactly what she was worth inside the squared circle. She had earned three new girls the chance at a real career. And she had given every person in the United Center, and watching on television, a reason to remember Trish Stratus forever.

Her eyes swept over the rows of crazy fans near the ring, focusing on those that had gone before her. She could barely stand, but she pointed to the seats behind the announcers, saluting Ivory, Molly, and Nidia, who returned the gesture.

_The entire women's locker room had emptied onto the top of the ramp – every woman she had loved or hated over the years was standing there, applauding her achievement. More than the win, that moment would stick in her mind forever, she realized later. The fact that this meant so much to them, opened so many doors for their futures, hadn't crossed her mind in the past week. But watching as Victoria, Lita, Stacy, Christy, and all the others extended their clapping hands to her nearly brought her to tears._

This time, as they moved toward the ring, she understood exactly what she had accomplished, and what it meant to them. She knew that they appreciated her. But she wasn't sure she would ever be able to tell them how much they meant to her, how they had fueled her passion and her fury, just by standing behind her.

The referee lifted her hand in victory as she cast a glance behind her. Randy was being rolled out of the ring, two trainers trying to support his weight.

_Trish shook her head and let her eyes drift shut slightly. Exhaustion was weighing on her, but she was determined not to give in to the sleep until she had said everything that she had been thinking all afternoon. "For months now, I have done everything that I could do to be sure that I got my happily-ever-after. I have lost my mind for you, Orton. I have done things I never, in a million lifetimes, thought I could do, for you and because of you. You give me this undeniable, indescribable strength to be a completely liberated version of myself."_

Lillian motioned for her to take another trip around the ring, to soak up the love and affection they were showing her, but her eyes narrowed on the man limping slowly to the ramp. Before she could follow him, though, she was found herself drowned in a sea of divas.

Randy rested all of his weight on the shoulders of the two trainers beside him, as they walked him down the stairs and into gorilla. "You gonna make it to the training room?"

He nodded and told himself to keep moving. He knew that his pride should be hurt – he had been beaten by a girl. But for Trish, and the importance of this night, it was worth taking a hit. Oh, he had tried his damnedest to get up. But that last move she had pulled would have put Taker down. She could have taken Batista out with that move. And he was more proud of her for pulling it off than he could ever be pissed at her for beating him.

"_Remember the night I told you that I loved you? The first time?" She nodded. "And I told you I didn't know if that was a good thing or not because I wasn't sure how to love somebody who wasn't me?"_

_There were no clouds or stars at dusk that night, and Monica was singing "For You I Will" while they held hands and rode in silence. She remembered that the silky voice on the radio sang the lines, "I will be your fortress, tall and strong. I will keep you safe. I'll stand beside you, right or wrong," just before he blurted the words she hadn't been expecting._

_And she remembered how terrified he looked when he realized what he had said. "I told you I didn't know, either," she answered finally. It had been true. She didn't know anything about functional relationships. No more than he did. But she remembered, as she watched him standing before her now, that she was willing to figure it out with him._

Randy grunted as the medics put him on the bed in the trainer's room, asking him where he hurt, what he could move, and how this poke or that prod felt. He answered their questions, but his thoughts were back in that car, in St. Louis. He still wasn't sure, after almost a year, if he knew how to love Trish Stratus. But there was one thing he knew beyond a shadow of any doubt – there was nobody else in the world that he wanted to stand with, inside the ring or out.


	19. Is That a Yes?

**Blaze of Glory**

_A/N: Alright, so this may, or may not, be the end of Blaze of Glory. I can end the story here and be okay with that. Or I can give y'all a Epilogue chapter. It's up to you. I'm open to whichever, so I'll just sit back and wait to see what you think. Sadly, thirty-nine chapters and a whole lot of time later, I'm no closer to owning the Superstars mentioned in here. Oh, well! Enjoy!

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_

Trish reached the gorilla pit without any assistance. Her adrenaline stopped flowing simultaneously, though, as her legs collapsed and she nearly hit the floor. "Come here, Champ," a deep voice sounded behind her, sweeping her off the ground and into a massive pair of arms.

She craned her neck a fraction of an inch and flinched in pain before resting her head on Batista's tee shirt-covered chest. "I don't think I'm ever gonna move again," she sighed.

He chuckled and followed the medic down a long hall, toward the training room. Superstars and management stooges tried to stop him, to congratulate Trish on her win, but the Animal just kept moving. "Maybe you could wait until she's coherent?" he suggested to some intern peon who kept trying to get Trish's attention.

"Hmm," she sighed, exhaustion taking her over. "I could get used to this," she whispered.

The big man pushed the make-shift hospital room door with his shoulder, nodding as the trainer motioned to the empty bed. Dave laid her gingerly against the hard bed and the flat pillow. "You cool?" he asked.

She moaned and nodded, trying to move her legs. But her lower body seemed to be in protest. Hell, her entire body was rebelling against everything she asked it to do at the moment. "Tony, I think I'm broken," she tried to laugh.

"Trish?"

Randy's lazy voice tickled her ears from the other side of the curtain that had been drawn for the privacy of the wrestlers. "Hey, baby," she answered, her voice strained and small.

"Open the curtain," Randy ordered someone.

"I think you guys should rest for now," a puny-sounding trainer tried to reason with Randy.

Trish giggled slightly at the notion. She had known him a longer than she had liked him, and she had never seen Randy Orton listen to a trainer. "Listen to him, Sweetie. I'm not very pretty right now," she cringed, trying to turn her head.

Tony, the man who had diagnosed every one of her injuries over the last five years, put his hands on either side of her face. "Can you move it at all, Trish?"

She sucked in a breath as he tried to help her, and then squeezed her eyes shut. "I can move it. It just hurts like a bitch," she answered as he moved his hands to her shoulders. "My ankle's killin' me," she finally told him, wanting his hands off her upper body. There was nothing she liked less than being touched when she was hurting.

The sound of the curtain sliding against the rod drew her attention. As slowly as she could, and ignoring the pain, she found herself staring into the most beautiful, albeit cloudy, pair of blue eyes she had ever seen. "I told you I'm not very pretty."

Randy rolled his eyes, the sedatives they had given him taking effect. Extending his good arm toward her, he waited until Trish returned the gesture. He wrapped his fingers around hers and squeezed. "You're beautiful," he corrected.

"You're heavily medicated," Trish spoke back. She may have been the last man standing in the ring, but she was down for the count now. She closed her eyes and let a smile drift over her lips.

"What are you thinking?" Randy asked, his eyes sweeping over her heavenly features, as he waited for her to tell him about the girls that Vince would be hiring, or the way she had felt out there in the ring. He even expected her to tell him she had reconsidered, that she wasn't retiring after all.

But she surprised him when she said, "I'm pretending that I've got enough energy to jump off this table and straddle you." With a groan, she licked her lips. "And now I'm thinking about kissing you." Opening her dark eyes, she smiled deviously. "You were so good out there."

He tightened his grip on her hand and watched her watching him. Even with trained technicians pulling on their limbs, injecting them with muscle relaxers, and spouting medical jargon, they were alone. No one else existed in the world of Trish and Randy, and she felt like she was doing cartwheels on the inside.

"Marry me."

Her eyes grew wide and then she laughed. "Now I know you're high," she answered, rolling her eyes and looking up at the ceiling. Randy didn't answer, only gripped her hand tighter. Returning her gaze to him, she swallowed. "You're serious?"

He nodded. She still didn't answer. "Do I have to prove it?" Nothing – no response. "Trisha, I can't wait to marry you. As soon as we can both walk again." He tried to clear his throat of the nerves rising there. "I want to buy a house with you, and have amazingly good-looking kids with you. I want it now." She was tearing up, but she still wasn't answering.

She tried to swallow and closed her eyes, taking in the moment. She had always dreamed of the perfect proposal. And none of her fantasies included an emergency gurney or blinding, post-match pain. "I know I told you to surprise me," she laughed slightly, raising an eyebrow as she met his eye again.

"Baby," he started as he felt his grasp slipping. "I'ma pass out soon, and I'd kinda like an answer."

She laughed and then screamed in pain as Tony pulled her boot off her swollen ankle. "Dammit, Tony, I'm trying to have a moment here." He just rolled his eyes and she returned her stare to the man beside her. "As soon as we can walk again, I can't wait to marry you, either, Randy."

"Is that a "yes"?"

"It's a "yes," ya moron," a deep voice sounded from the door.

Trish tried to sit up, smiling at Hunter as he leaned against the frame of the entry. "Hey, you," she smiled.

"You said to come see you in the trainer's room," her friend shrugged slightly, making his way to her bedside. "Gotta say, Trishter, you surprised me," he admitted. "I mean, I always knew you were tougher than that pussy over there," he pointed to Orton.

She reached her free hand up to smack at Hunter. "Alright, that's enough," she interrupted. "That's my husband you're talking about."

Hunter watched as Orton slipped from consciousness, despite fighting it with everything he had. Trish held on to his hand, though his arm had gone limp. "I know it's not like I'll never see you again," The Game smirked, bending to place a kiss on her forehead. "I just wanted to be the first to tell you 'bye.'" He sucked in a deep breath as he stood and shoved his hands into his pockets, turning on his toe to exit as quickly as he had appeared.

They were the last words Trish heard as she floated off to dreams of wedding ceremonies, country homes, and beautiful Orton babies.


	20. Remember Trish Stratus?

**Blaze of Glory**

**(The Final Chapter)**

_A/N: Alright - this is it. The final chapter of the story that started way back in The Emancipation. To **Trishaholic**, I never thought about doing a Prequel, but your suggestion piqued my interest. I thought about it for a long time today, but these stories were built on twists and secrets, and if you already know how it ends, I can't really shock you with how it began, can I? Also, I think it's time to let this one go. Thanks, a hundred million times over, to everyone who reviewed this story so faithfully, and got behind the movement. It was quite a journey, and I'm kinda sad to see it go. Knowing that so many of you feel the same way gives me a great sense of accomplishment._

_Never fear, kids - the Queen's muses snapped into high gear today and I already have an idea for a new Trish story. The problem? I don't know who the big male lead will be yet. Suggestions? I hope to start posting it in the next couple of days. _

_But for now, I give you the Epilogue to Blaze of Glory. Enjoy! (Oh, I don't own 'em.)

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_

Trish had heard it said that change was the only constant in life. More than twenty years after her retirement, she couldn't say that she disagreed. When she left the company, Vince had extended an invitation to return whenever she was ready, but she was tired of being his marketing pawn. And her life as a wife and mother left little time to even consider returning to the ring.

When, nearly fifteen years later, Vince finally resigned his position as the head of the WWE, many were surprised to see Hunter take the reigns. But in Trish's mind, it made perfect sense. It was the ultimate evolution of The Game, and she had called to let him know she was confident in his ability to take their industry to a whole new level.

When Hunter offered her a part-time position, training the incoming divas, her kids were in almost in high school, and Randy, at age 40, was nowhere near retiring, or losing his ring luster. The Women's roster was stacked with twenty women who actually wrestled, and it was too tempting an offer to turn down. There were still gimmick matches, and swimsuit shoots, and Playboy cover girls, but they were all required to undergo an intense six-week training program before making a television debut.

It was surreal the first time she had stepped back into the ring to start training the new class of divas. It took everything in her not to break down and cry when she realized that this was the culmination of her dream. Back in the day, when she was fighting Vince, people thought it was about getting a better position in the company for herself. But it had been about these girls, fifteen years later, having actual expectations to live up to. It was about these girls, who would lose their jobs not for gaining a few extra pounds, but for failing to step-up their game on a consistent basis

That would have been enough of a thank-you for Trish Stratus. If she never got another accolade, she could rest with the knowledge that these new girls could do what they loved because she had taken a stand for what she believed in so many years earlier.

But it wasn't enough for Hunter, or the Board of Directors. So on the eve of Wrestlemania 45, twenty-three years after walking away, she stood backstage in a Toronto ballroom, waiting to be inducted into the Hall of Fame. "This is not happening," Trish breathed.

Hunter cleared his throat beside her and reached an arm around her waist, feeling as she slumped her weight against his shoulder. "You're not nervous, are ya?" he teased.

"I haven't been in front of a crowd like this in almost twenty-five years, Hunter. What if none of them have any idea who I am?" She bit her lip and stared up at him with doe eyes.

He drank in the innocence of her stare and noted that she hadn't changed all that much. Her hair was still golden blonde, and her body was still well-cared for and toned. Her features were still flawless, though time and age were starting to make themselves known in the corners of her eyes and mouth. "Come on," he rolled his eyes and pointed to the screen in front of them.

She was being inducted by the current Women's Champion – a tall, lean, muscular, twenty-one-year-old named Kya, with blue eyes and long, dark hair. Trish smiled, knowing that the nerves in her own stomach were nothing compared to the ones that young woman was feeling as she stepped onto the stage and acknowledged the cheers of the fans in attendance.

Kya had been one of the girls in her first training group, almost five years ago. She was an exotically beautiful sixteen-year-old at the time, tough as nails in the ring, and sweeter than sugar outside. After a year of Trish's teaching, Kya had graduated from high school and headed to Mexico to continue learning her craft. She returned to the WWE at the young age of twenty, and captured the Women's title after only six months. It was a moment that Trish was sure she would never forget.

"Hundred bucks says she pukes all over those shoes," Hunter nodded toward the screen as Kya tucked her dark locks behind her ears and checked the notes on the podium before her.

He was probably right. Though she played a vixen for the cameras, Trish knew that Kya hated the spotlight when she wasn't wrestling. "She'll be fine," she answered, though she wasn't sure if she was trying to convince him, or herself.

"Most of the women in this room will tell you that they grew up watching Trish Stratus wrestle. Twenty years after her retirement, they can still tell you how it felt to watch her beat Triple H for the World Heavyweight Championship. They can easily relay what they were thinking when she, along with Lita and Victoria, let Vince McMahon know that they were taking back the ring. And they will be glad to tell you where they were, and how hard they cried, when they watched Trish Stratus beat Randy Orton in her final match at Wrestlemania 22 in Chicago."

Kya sipped from a Styrofoam cup on the podium and cleared her throat, raising an eyebrow when someone in the back yelled for her to take off her shirt. It was crass, but it broke the ice for the young diva as she told him he'd have to pay for the next issue of Playboy to see her naked.

"Most of the women in this room will tell you that they got into a ring for the first time because of Trish Stratus. They are here tonight because they saw her fire, her beauty, and her determination – and they wanted to be just like that." The camera panned to many of the current divas, all nodding or clapping in agreement with their leader. "I am not one of those women," she smiled, her eyes sweeping over the front row. "I didn't grow up wanting to be just like Trish Stratus. I grew up wanting to be better."

Hunter chuckled at her side. "That's why she's the champ," Trish shrugged, resting her head on her friend's shoulder as Kya continued.

"Trish was a strong, confident, determined woman who never backed down until she got what she wanted. Week in and week out, she was the woman who would stop at nothing to get her way in the ring, and out of it. And she was the one who made the arena crackle with just a little more excitement every time she stepped through the curtain. Watching her made you believe, even for a moment, that nothing was impossible if you were willing to fight for it."

Trish smiled to herself. There had been moments, in the beginning, that she had worried about being forgotten. After retiring, she had been worried that the Women's division would receive a slight push, and then get buried. And though she no longer worried about her name being remembered, but she was glad that her contributions were still making a difference.

"Trish Stratus is not my hero because she was the seven-time Women's champion, or because she sparked the revolution that still lives today, that allows me to stand here tonight. No woman before her, or since, really, has possessed the same mixture of sexy, passionate beauty, but that's not why I grew up idolizing Trish Stratus. Those are not the reasons that she was my standard for becoming a WWE diva." Licking her lips, Kya scanned the room, looking to the fan section with the proud grin of a kid on Christmas morning.

"Trish Stratus is my hero because she put being my mom ahead of being your leader and idol. My brothers and I never doubted, for a second, that our mother loved this business. We knew, when she was chasing us around backstage, that she missed the roar of the crowd and the flash of the lights. We knew that she would have done anything to able to spend equal amounts of time with us and with all of you.

"But my mom understood, and taught us, that sometimes you make the tough choices, not because you want to, but because you have to. I love that my mom is beautiful, charismatic, sexy, and that all of you loved her for it." Kya's eyes rested on her father. His reassuring smile encouraged her to finish strong. "But I am more proud that she is a strong and intelligent woman who pushed herself to the brink of insanity so that I could stand here today, holding a belt that actually means something."

There was a thunder of applause from around the room, fans and wrestlers alike chanting for the woman who had yet to step foot into the ballroom. "I'm gonna lose it," Trish warned Hunter, who had somehow managed to find a box of tissues for her. "How the fuck am I supposed to go out there and give a speech now?"

"Come on, Trish," Hunter teased, giving her waist a little squeeze. "You are a piece of wrestling history, my friend. Go out there and accept it."

"Ladies and gentlemen," Kya finally spoke, when the cheers had died slightly, "it is my privilege, and my honor to present to you, for induction into the Hall of Fame, my mother, my hero, and the greatest Women's Champion in the history of the WWE – Trish Stratus."

Trish pushed off of Hunter's shoulder on shaky legs and made her way to the curtain. With one final deep breath, she stepped onto the stage and waved, as the crowd jumped to its feet. She moved toward Kya and hugged her tightly. "You were great," she whispered, rubbing a maternal hand over her daughter's back.

"Better than you will be," Kya challenged. There was no denying that she was her father's daughter, with her long legs, broad shoulders, and model features. But as Trish pulled back from the hug, she just rolled her eyes at the raised eyebrow and the cocky grin that the woman was shooting her.

It was all Randy could do to stay in his place. His nineteen-year-old sons flanked him on either side. Twins Connor and Riley, were OVW tag team champions, preparing for a move to the big stage. His daughter was the WWE Women's Champion. And his wife had beaten him once again – this time into the Hall of Fame. Nothing in his life, or his career, had ever made him more proud than he was at that moment.

Stepping to the microphone, Trish waited for the crowd to be seated and then cleared her throat. Giving them her best giggle, she sent them into a frenzy again, taking advantage of the opportunity to steal a glance at her husband and sons, while trying to calm her nerves.

On Sunday, she would sit backstage and watch her little girl defend the Women's Championship on the grandest stage of them all. Monday, she would pretend to be surprised when the boys told her that they got a call-up from the minors to the big leagues. And on Tuesday, Randy would come home to Connecticut for three days of alone time.

But on Saturday evening, with a thousand Toronto fans screaming her name, and hundreds of thousands watching at home, she fumbled through a speech about how she had never regretted any of her decisions, and how she had loved entertaining them as much as they loved watching her do it.

After a late dinner with their kids and some old friends, Randy and Trish locked the door of their hotel for the night. "So," Randy sighed, loosening his tie and turning to face his wife.

She sank to the bed and let her arms fall to her sides. "I'm exhausted," she smiled, lying back on the soft mattress. "Take my shoes off, baby?"

Randy knelt on the floor by the bed and rested her foot against his leg, working his large hands over the buckle. "You know I'm only doin' this so you'll return the favor after my match tomorrow, right?"

For a moment, she just stared at the ceiling, thinking about the twenty-four years they had spent together. Tomorrow night, he would run into that ring and take on some punk ass kid with a cocky grin and a hell of a lot of talent. Her husband had gone from the Legend Killer to a true Legend, just like she had always known he would. "You know I'd do that anyway," she groaned as he massaged the arch of her foot slowly.

He smiled when she opened her eyes and met his deviant stare. There was something in his mind. Something that would, no doubt, hinder her ability to walk straight in the morning. "I love you," was all he said, dropping her foot and crawling onto the bed beside her.

"Can I ask you a question?" She rose to her knees in front of him and ran her fingernails over his neck, and through his hair, before resting her palms on his cheeks. Nodding, he kissed her quickly again. "You ever think we'd make it this far?"

"Well," Randy laughed and pulled her little body on top of his as he fell back on the bed. Pushing her hair behind her ears, he ran a finger over her bottom lip and considered her for a moment. He answered with a Legend Killer grin, "I decided a long time ago that I wasn't gonna let you go, so yeah."

She wrapped her arms around his neck as he flipped them over and started to slide the straps of her dress down her arms. Giggling as his lips found the sensitive skin in the hollow of her throat, she realized something. It was good to be Trish fuckin' Stratus.


End file.
